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An  Anthology  of 
Mot/ier  Verse 


AN   ANTHOLOGY 
OF   MOTHER   VERSE 

WITH   AN  INTRODUCTION    BY 
KATE  DOUGLAS   WIGGIN 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

MDCCCCXIX 


*0  it  ^  -L  J* 


COPYRIGHT,   1917,   BY    HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 


ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


God  ^es  us  mervls^and  tnatTmans  mvai; 

^ut  far  ahovG  all  others, 
ilw  greatest  of  his  ^ijts  to  earth 

v\fqjs  when  He  thhu^i  of  Mothers 


r  i^ 
HYMN  FOR  THE   IMOTHER 

Y  My  child  is  lying  on  my  knees; 

The  signs  of  heaven  she  reads; 
My  face  is  all  the  heaven  she  sees. 
Is  all  the  heaven  she  needs. 

^  And  she  is  well,  yea,  bathed  in  bliss, 

\»^  If  heaven  is  in  my  face,  — 


4 


Behind  it  is  all  tenderness 
And  truthfulness  and  grace. 


I  mean  her  well  so  earnestly, 
*^t  Unchanged  in  changing  mood; 

v^  •  My  life  would  go  without  a  sigh 

To  bring  her  something  good. 

I  also  am  a  child,  and  I 
Am  ignorant  and  weak; 
{  I  gaze  upon  the  starry  sky, 

And  then  I  must  not  speak; 


For  all  behind  the  starry  sky. 
Behind,  the  world  so  broad, 

Behind  mens  hearts  and  souls  doth  lie 
The  Infinite  of  God. 

Ay,  true  to  her,  though  troubled  sore, 

I  cannot  choose  but  be: 
Thou  who  art  peace  forevermore 

Art  very  true  to  me. 


Hymn  for  the  Mother 

If  I  am  loio  and  sinful,  bring 
More  love  where  need  is  rife; 

Thou  hnowest  ichat  an  awful  thing 
It  is  to  he  a  life. 

Hast  thou  not  ivisdom  to  emvrap 

My  waywardness  about. 
In  doubting  safety  on  the  lap 

Of  Love  that  knows  no  doubt  ? 

Lo !  Lord,  I  sit  in  thy  wide  space. 

My  child  upon  my  knee; 
She  looketh  up  into  my  face. 

And  I  look  up  to  thee. 

George  JNIacdonald 


FOREWORD 

Scattered  throughout  the  works  of  the 
great  poets,  there  are  many  beautiful  trib- 
utes to  mothers  and  subtle  interpretations 
of  motherhood ;  also,  in  old  as  well  as  in 
very  new  poems,  there  are  illuminating  sug- 
gestions to  mothers  regarding  both  their 
opportunities  and  their  responsibilities.  This 
valuable  body  of  "mother  literature"  has 
but  one  drawback  —  the  fact  that  it  is  so 
diffused.  The  aim  of  this  book  has  been  to 
gather  together  in  one  volume  the  very  best 
poems  from  these  various  sources,  for  the 
use  and  also  for  the  enjoyment  of  present- 
day  mothers,  both  young  and  old. 

E.  McC. 
Cambridge,  April,  1917. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Thanks  are  due  the  following  publishers, 
and  individual  owners  of  copyrights,  for  their 
kind  permission  to  include  the  selections 
enumerated  below :  — 

To  American  Motherhood,  for  "My 
Mother,"  by  Frederic  Hentz  Adams.  To 
the  Century  Company,  for  "  An  English 
Mother,"  from  Saint- Gaud  ens,  and  Other 
Poems,  by  Robert  Underwood  Johnson. 
To  B.  W.  Huebsch,  for  "  Mother  to  Son," 
and  "One  Mother,"  by  Irene  Rutherford 
McLeod.  To  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  for 
"  Seven  Times  Four,"  by  Jean  Ingelow ; 
and  "  To  My  First  Love,  My  Mother,"  by 
Christina  G.  Rossetti.  To  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons,  for  "  A  Christmas  Carol,"  and 
"  Cradle  Song,"  by  Josiah  Gilbert  Holland  ; 
"  Child  and  Mother,"  "  Japanese  Lullaby," 
and  "  Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod,"  by 
Eugene  Field ;  and  "  Matres  Dolorosae,"  by 
Robert  Bridges.  To  Sherman,  French  & 
Co.,  for  "  Motherhood,"  from  The  Border 
of  the  Lake,  by  Agnes  Lee.  To  Small,  May- 
nard  &  Co.,  for  "  Christ  the  Mendicant," 
"  At  Bothlehem,"  and  "  To  His  Mother,"  by 
John  Banister  Tabb.    To  Anna  Hempstead 


Acknowledgments 

Branch,  for  "  Songs  for  My  Mother."  To 
Robert  Underwood  Johnson,  for  "  An  Eng- 
lish Mother,"  from  Saint- Gaudens^  and 
Other  Poems,  copyright,  1908,  by  Robert 
Underwood  Johnson.  To  Rudyard  Kipling, 
for  "Mother  o'  Mine,"  from  TJie  Light 
that  Failed.^  copyright,  1899,  by  Rudyard 
Kipling.  To  Agnes  Lee,  for  "  Motherhood," 
from  TTie  Border  of  the  Lake.  To  Irene 
Rutherford  McLeod,  for  "Mother  to  Son," 
and  "  One  Mother." 

Special  thanks  are  due  also  to  Mr.  Frank 
H.  Chase,  Reference  Librarian,  Boston  Pub- 
lic Library,  for  much  kind  help  in  locating 
poems  and  copyrights. 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION.    By  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  xvii 

THE  YOUNG  MOTHER 

Seven  Times  Four  .  .  .  Jean  Ingelow  3 
A  Mother's  Picture 

Edmund  Clarence  Siedman  4 

Mother's  Love      .       .      .      Thomas  Burbidge  5 

The  Widow's  Mite  Frederick  Lockcr-Lampson  7 

The  Daguerreotype      William  Vaughn  Moody  7 

Baby's  Skies M.C.  Bartlett  16 

The  Mother's  Return  Dorothy  Wordsworth  16 
Song  from  "The  Princess" 

("Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead") 

Alfred  Tennyson  18 
Alison's  Mother  to  the  Brook 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody  19 

Children's  Kisses     Jaephine  Preston  Peabody  22 

Maternal  Grief  .  .  William  Wordsworth  24 
Songs  for  My  Mother 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch  28 

MOTHERS  OF  MEN 

Mother  and  Poet .  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  33 

Mother  Wept        ....  Joseph  Skipsey  39 

How's  My  Boy?.       .       .       .    Sidney  Dobell  40 

The  Sad  Mother  .  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson  42 
An  Aboriginal  Mother's  Lament 

Charles  Harpur  43 
Lines  to  My  Mother's  Picture 

William  Cowper  44 

My  Mother's  Bible      .        George  Pope  Morris  50 

Two  Sons        ....     Robert  Buchanan  51 

Mother  to  Ron      .      Irene  Rutherford  McLeod  52 


Conteri,s 

One  Mother  .      .     Irene  Rutherford  McLeod  64 
An  English  Mother 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson  59 

Matres  Dolorosse  ....  Robert  Bridges  61 

The  Absent  Soldier  Son    .       .    Sidney  Dobell  62 

Mother  and  Son   ....       Phoebe  Cary  63 

Motherhood Agnes  Lee  65 

CHRISTMAS  MOTHER  POEMS 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity        .       .     John  Milton  69 

A  Mother  in  Egypt   .  Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickihall  79 

Christmas  Carol Unknown  82 

Regina  Coeli   ....     Coventry  Patmore  83 

Christ  the  Mendicant .        John  Banister  Tabb  84 

A  Christmas  Carol      .  Josiah  Gilbert  Holland  85 

A  Little  Child's  Hymn  Francis  Turner  Palgrave  86 

A  Carol Unknown  87 

LULLABIES 

Sea  SI  umber- Song        .       .       .        Roden  Noel  91 

Alfred  Tennyson  92 


Sweet  and  Low     . 
A  Cradle  Hymn    . 
Cradle  Song    . 
Sleep,  Baby,  Sleep 
Japanese  Lullaby 


Isaac  Watts  92 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  95 
Anonymous  95 
Eugene  Field  96 
The  Cottager's  Lullaby  Dorothy  Wordsworth  97 
Swedish  Mother's  Lullaby  Frederika  Bremer  98 
The  Road  to  Slumber-Land  Mary  Dow  Brine  98 
Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod  .  Eitgene  Field  100 
Auld  Daddy  Darkness  .  James  Ferguson  102 
Mother-Song  (from  "Prince  Lucifer") 

Alfred  Austin  103 
Sephestia's  Lullaby  (from  "Menaphon") 

Robert  Greene  104 

Cradle  Song William  Blake  105 

Lullaby  of  an  Infant  Chief      .       B'alter  Scott  106 

THE  JOY  OF  MOTHERHOOD 

The  Firstborn       .       .    John  Arthur  Goodchild  111 
Baby-Land George  Cooper  112 


Contents 

Mother's  Song Unknown  113 

Cradle  Song Unknown  115 

Cradle  Song  (from  "Bitter-Sweet") 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland  116 
A  Song  of  Twilight  ....  Unknown  118 
Tucking  the  Baby  In  .  .  .  Curtis  May  119 
Mother  and  Child  William  Gilmore  Simms  121 
Maternity  ....  Anne  P.  L.  Field  122 
The  Little  Black  Boy        .       .  William  Blake  123 

My  Bird Emily  C.  Judson  124 

Children  ....  Walter  Savage  Landor  125 
My  Little  Dear  ....  Dollie  Radford  126 
The  Immortality  of  Love .  .  Robert  Southey  127 
"That  They  AU  May  Be  One"       Roden  Noel  128 

OLD-FASHIONED  MOTHER  POEMS 

My  Mother Jane  Taylor  133 

Half-Waking  .  .  .  William  Allingham  135 
To  a  Child  Embracing  His  Mother 

Thomas  Hood  136 
Wishing  ....  William  Allingham  137 
The  Visit  .  From  Rhymes  for  the  Nursery  138 
The  Baby       .       .       .    Jane  and  Ann  Taylor  141 

Getting  Up Jane  Taylor  142 

Mamma  (from  "  The  Floweret ") 

Anna  M.  Wells  143 
To  My  Mother  ....  Tlwmas  Moore  145 
Cuddle  Doon 
The  Baby 
Good-Night    . 


The  Old  Arm-Chair 


Alexander  Anderson  145 

Jane  Taylor  147 

Jane  Taylor  149 

.      .        Eliza  Cook  150 


SONNETS  ON  MOTHERHOOD 

Ad  Matrem    .  .        Julian  Henry  Fane  155 

Nature  .  .  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  155 
Bedtime  .  .  .  Francis,  Earl  of  Rosslyn  156 
Her  Firstborn  .  Charles  Tennyson  Turner  167 
To  A  Young  Child       .       .       .    Eliza  Scudder  158 


Contents 

The  Virgin  .  .  .  William  Wordswonh  158 
Thanksgiving  After  Childbirth 

William  Wordsworth  159 
My  Mother  ....  William  Bell  Scott  160 
Evening  .  .  .  Wendell  Phillips  Garrison  161 
To  My  First  Love,  My  Mother 

Christina  G.  Rossetti  161 

TRIBUTES  TO  MOTHERS 

Mother  o'  Mine  .  .  .  Rudyard  Kipling  165 
At  Bethlehem  .  .  John  Banister  Tabb  165 
To  His  Mother  .  .  John  Banister  Tabb  166 
The  Shepherdess  ....  Alice  Meynell  166 
Motherless  .  .  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  167 
Child  and  Mother  .  .  .  Eugene  Field  169 
My  Ain  Wife  ....  Alexander  Laing  170 
She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 

William  Wordsworth  171 
Cling  to  Thy  Mother  .  .  .  George  Bethune  172 
Now  I  Lay  Me  Down  to  Sleep 

Eugene  Henry  Pullen  174 
Birth    Annie  R.  Stillman  ("Grace  Raymond")  175 

Only  One George  Cooper  176 

"The  Old  Face  of   the    Mother  of    Many 

Children" Walt  Whitman  177 

A  Mother  .  .  .  Caroline  E.  S.  Norton  178 
To  My  Mother  .  Robert  Haven  Schauffler  180 
My  Mother    .      .      .    Frederic  Hentz  Adams  181 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 185 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 189 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 193 


INTRODUCTION  *'%'* 


There  was  once  a  Child  who  lived  very 
much  by  himself  in  a  tall  building  with  many 
windows  looking  skyward. 

He  did  not  lack  for  care,  for  he  had  food 
and  drink,  shelter  and  raiment,  yet  he  was 
always  hungry  and  thirsty  and  cold,  and  the 
young  soul  of  him  pined  and  knew  not  why. 

The  days  were  very  dreary  and  very  long, 
though  in  a  child's  life  they  should  flit  by 
like  painted  butterflies  on  the  wing. 

There  was  a  courtyard  far,  far  below,  so 
that  out-of-doors  was  not  withheld  from  the 
Child,  but  when  he  reached  the  place  from 
which  the  green  wood  could  be  seen,  the  blue 
sky  was  so  far  away  that  he  felt  desolate, 
and  longed  for  a  smaller  world  of  which  he 
could  be  a  part. 

And  so  it  was,  day  after  day,  till  twilight 
came  and  hid  the  bigness  of  things;  and 
when  the  cool  dark  floated  into  his  bedroom 


Introduction 

and  the  friendly  moon  came  to  keep  him 
company,  he  was  happy,  for  then  he  drifted 
off  into  the  land  of  dreams. 

The  dream  led  him  first  into  a  garden  ; 
open  to  the  sun  and  offering  to  every  sense  a 
rare  and  subtle  charm  that  could  be  felt,  but 
not  defined. 

There  was  a  Balm-of-Gilead  tree  in  one 
corner,  and  in  another  a  group  of  young 
pines,  —  slender,  strong,  vigorous  trees  under 
which  one  could  hide  in  the  noonday  heat. 
And  there  were  tufts  of  sweet  herbs  send- 
ing out  health-giving  odors  ;  and  there  were 
perfumed  tangles  of  mignonette  and  helio- 
trope and  lavender  and  purple  clover,  with 
honeysuckle  climbing  here  and  there  to  make 
the  air  fragrant. 

The  flowers  were  all  dear,  familiar,  modest 
ones,  such  as  violets  and  pansies,  clove-pinks 
and  hyacinths ;  but,  loveliest  of  all,  was  a 
clump  of  Madonna  lilies,  their  tall  green 
stalks  crowned  with  dazzling  white  blossoms. 
The  Child  crept  under  them  and,  looking  up, 
marveled  at  the  shining  purity  of  the  blooms 
that  made  a  little  white  heaven  over  his  head. 

There  were  birds  in  the  trees,  and  the 
Child  sometimes  fancied  that  they  tried  to 
speak  to  him,  although  he  could  never  puz- 
zle out  the  meaning  of  their  language.  But 
one  night  when  the  birds  slept  he  heard  the 


Introduction 

rustle  of  great  wings,  a  stirring  of  the  air, 
a  soft  flutter,  and  then,  in  the  darkness,  a 
Voice.  There  was  no  Presence,  but  the  Voice 
was  clear,  and  it  said:  — 

"  Do  you  find  the  garden  beautiful,  my 
child?" 

"  The  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world," 
answered  the  Child.  "  Is  it  you  who  are 
making  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Voice,  "I  am  making  the 
garden,  with  your  help." 

"  But  I  have  done  nothing,"  said  the 
Child. 

"You  have  loved  it,"  said  the  Voice, 
"  and  Love  makes  things  grow." 

"And  shall  I  ever  plant  anything  in  the 
garden  myself?"  asked  the  Child. 

"  Yes ;  for  the  garden  is  now  finished  save 
for  that  which  you  will  plant  with  your  own 
hands." 

And  then  the  Child  awoke  with  the  per- 
fume of  lilies  in  his  nostrils,  and  it  was  the 
beginning  of  another  long  day. 

But  night  came  with  a  difference.  The 
Child  had  barely  slipped  into  the  dream 
when  he  felt  that  he  was  being  swiftly  wafted 
to  the  garden.  And  the  wings  that  bore  him 
and  guided  him  were  so  soft  and  so  strong 
that  he  did  not  wonder  when  he  heard  the 
Voice. 


hitroduction 

And  the  Voice  said :  — 

"  If  you  were  to  plant  something  precious 
in  the  garden,  my  chUd,  what  spot  woukl  you 
choose?" 

"  I  would  choose  the  spot  under  the  Ma- 
donna lilies,"  said  the  Child,  "for  the  blos- 
soms make  a  little  white  heaven  overhead 
and  near  by  is  a  crystal  spring  whose  peb- 
bles are  changed  into  gold  and  precious  stones 
by  the  moonbeams." 

Like  puffs  of  thistledown  they  swept 
over  the  young  pines  and  floated  past  the 
little  groves  of  mignonette  and  lavender 
and  purple  clover,  tUl  they  alighted  near 
the  crystal  spring  where  the  Madonna  lilies 
bloomed. 

"Stretch  out  your  hand,  my  child,"  said 
the  Voice,  "  and  what  you  find  in  the  wet 
grass,  that  is  for  you  to  plant." 

And  the  Child  stretched  out  his  hand  and 
touched  something  soft  and  warm  hidden  in 
a  blanket  of  leaves. 

"Is  it  a  bird?"  he  whispered,  for  he  felt 
a  throb  under  his  hand. 

"  JVo,  it  is  not  a  bird  !  "  said  the  Voice,  — 
"  it  is  a  heart  1  Make  a  hollow  for  it  like  a 
nest ;  do  not  unwrap  it,  but  lay  it  gently  in 
the  hollow ;  cover  it  lightly  with  soft  earth, 
then  step  back,  for  the  place  on  which  you 
stand  will  be  holy  giound." 


Introduction 

Aiul  the  Child  did  as  he  was  bidden. 

He  made  a  hollow  like  a  nest ;  he  laid  the 
heart  gently  in  the  hollow  without  removing 
its  blanket  of  leaves ;  then  he  covered  it  lightly 
with  earth  and  stepped  back  and  waited  in 
silence. 

And  straightway  (for  there  is  no  time  in 
dreams)  the  heart  stirred,  and  trembled,  and 
swelled,  and  broke  through  the  soft  eart-h,  and 
lifted  itself  and  grew.  And  it  seemed  to  sum- 
mon to  its  aid  all  the  richest  treasures  of 
the  garden  ;  the  strength  of  the  yoimg  pines, 
the  aroma  of  the  sweet  herbs,  the  fragrance 
of  the  flowers,  the  healing  balsam  that  flowed 
from  the  Balm-of-Gilead  tree,  and  the  purity 
of  the  lilies. 

And  when  it  came  to  its  moment  of  full 
perfection,  lo  I  it  loas,  not  a  growing  and 
hlossominrj  heai%  hut  —  a  Mother! 

And  the  Child  Jcneiv  f  For  knowledge 
comes  swiftly  and  surely  in  dreams! 

He  stretched  out  his  arms,  and  in  the 
deep  peace  that  followed  mutual  recognition 
and  need,  the  Winged  Presence  vanished 
softly  into  the  darkness,  leaving  the  Mother 
and  Child  together  in  the  Garden  of  Dreams. 

Kate  Douglas  Wiggin 


i 


SEVEN   TIMES   FOUR 

Heigh  no !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Fair  yellow  daffodils,  stately  and  tall. 
When  the  wind  wakes  how  they  rock  in  the 
grasses. 
And  dance  with  the  cuckoo-buds,  slender 
and  small: 
Here 's  two  bonny  boys,  and  here 's  mother's 
own  lasses, 
Eager  to  gather  them  all. 

Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Mother  shall  thread  them  a  daisy  chain  ; 
Sing  them  a  song  of  the  pretty  hedge-spar- 
row, 
That  loved  her  brown  little  ones,  loved 
them  full  fain ; 
Sing,  *'  Heart  thou  art  wide  though  the  house 
be  but  narrow  "  — 
Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 

Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend  and 
they  bow ; 
A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  ocean  waters. 
And  haply  one  musing  doth  stand  at  her 
prow. 

3 


To  Mother 

O  bonny  brown   sons,  and  O  sweet  little 
daugbters, 
Maybe  he  thinks  on  you  now ! 

Heigh  ho !  daisies  and  buttercups, 

Fair  yellow  daffodils  stately  and  tall ; 
A  sunshiny  world  full  of  laughter  and  leisure, 
And  fresh  hearts  unconscious  of  sorrow 
and  thrall, 
Send  down  on  their  pleasure  smiles  passing 
its  measure  — 
God  that  is  over  us  all. 

Jean  Ingelow 

A  MOTHER'S   PICTURE 

She  seemed  an  angel  to  our  infant  eyes ! 
Once,  when  the  glorifying  moon  revealed 
Her  who  at  evening  by  our  pillow  kneeled  — 
Soft-voiced   and   golden-haired,  from   holy 

skies 
Flown  to  her  loves  on  wings  of  Paradise  — 
We  looked  to  see  the  pinions  half-concealed. 
The  Tuscan  vines  and  olives  will  not  yield 
Her  back  to  me,  who  loved   her   in    this 

wise. 
And  since  have  little  known  her,  but  have 

grown 
To  see  another  mother,  tenderly, 
Watch  over  sleeping  darlings  of  her  own ; 
4 


The  Young  Mother 

Perchance  the  years  have  changed  her :  yet 

alone 
This  picture  lingers :  still  she  seems  to  me 
The  fair,  young  Angel  of  my  infancy. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

MOTHER'S   LOVE 

He  sang  so  wildly,  did  the  Boy, 

That  you  could  never  tell 

If  't  was  a  madman's  voice  you  heard, 

Or  if  the  spirit  of  a  bird 

Within  his  heart  did  dwell : 

A  bird  that  dallies  with  his  voice 

Among  the  matted  branches  ; 

Or  on  the  free  blue  air  his  note 

To  pierce,  and  fall,  and  rise,  and  float, 

With  bolder  utterance  launches, 

None  ever  was  so  sweet  as  he, 

The  boy  that  wildly  sang  to  me  ; 

Though  toilsome  was  the  way  and  long, 

He  led  me  not  to  lose  the  song. 

But  when  again  we  stood  below 
The  unhidden  sky,  his  feet 
Grew  slacker,  and  his  note  more  slow. 
But  more  than  doubly  sweet. 
He  led  me  then  a  little  way 
Athwart  the  barren  moor, 
And  then  he  stayed  and  bade  me  stay 
5 


To  Mother 

Beside  a  cottage  door  ; 
I  could  have  stayed  of  mine  own  will, 
In  truth,  my  eye  and  heart  to  fdl 
With  the  sweet  sight  which  I  saw  there, 
At  the  dwelling  of  the  cottager. 

A  little  in  the  doorway  sitting, 

The  mother  plied  her  busy  kuittmg, 

And  her  cheek  so  softly  smiled. 

You  might  be  sure,  although  her  gaze 

Was  on  the  meshes  of  the  lace. 

Yet  her  thoughts  were  with  her  child. 

But  when  the  boy  had  heard  her  voice, 

As  o'er  her  work  she  did  rejoice, 

His  became  silent  altogether. 

And  slily  creeping  by  the  wall 

He  seiz'd  a  single  plume,  let  fall 

By  some  wild  bird  of  longest  feather ; 

And  all  a-tremble  with  his  freak, 

He  touch'd  her  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

Oh,  what  a  loveliness  her  eyes 
Gather  in  that  one  moment's  space. 
While  peeping  round  the  post  she  spies 
Her  darling's  laughing  face ! 
Oh,  mother's  love  is  glorifying, 
On  the  cheek  like  sunset  lying ; 
In  the  eyes  a  moisten'd  light. 
Softer  than  the  moon  at  night ! 

Tliomas  Burhidge 
6 


The  Young  Mother 

THE   WIDOW'S   MITE 

A  Widow,  —  she  had  only  one  ! 
A  pnny  and  decrepit  son  ; 

But,  day  and  night, 
Though  fretful  oft,  and  weak  and  small, 
A  loving  child,  he  was  her  all,  — 

The  Widow's  Mite. 

The  Widow's  Mite  —  aye,  so  sustain'd, 
She  battled  onward,  nor  complain'd 

Though  friends  were  fewer  : 
And  while  she  toil'd  for  daily  fare, 
A  little  crutch  upon  the  stair 

Was  music  to  her. 

I  saw  her  then,  and  now  I  see 

Tliat,  though  resigu'd  and  cheerful,  she 

Has  sorrow'd  much: 
She  has,  —  He  gave  it  tenderly,  — 
Much  faith,  and,  carefully  laid  by, 

A  little  crutch. 

Frederick  Locker-Lampson 

THE  DAGUERREOTYPE 

This,  then,  is  she, 

My  mother  as  she  looked  at  seventeen. 
When  she  first  met  my  father.   Young  in- 
credibly, 

7 


To  Mother 

Younger  than  spring,  without  the  faintest 

trace 
Of  disappointment,  weariness,  or  tear 
Upon  the  childlike  earnestness  and  grace 
Of  the  waiting  face. 
Those  close-wound  ropes  of  pearl 
(Or  common  beads  made  precious  by  their 

use) 
Seem  heavy  for  so  slight  a  throat  to  wear ; 
But  the  low  bodice  leaves  the  shoulders  bare 
And  half  the  glad  swell  of  the  breast,  for  news 
That  now  the  woman  stirs  within  the  girl. 
And  yet. 

Even  so,  the  loops  and  globes 
Of  beaten  gold 
And  jet 

Hung,  in  the  stately  way  of  old, 
From  the  ears'  drooping  lobes 
On  festivals  and  Lord's-day  of  the  week, 
Show  all  too  matron-sober  for  the  cheek,  — 
Which,  now  I  look  again,  is  perfect  child, 
Or  no  —  or  no  —  't  is  girlhood's  very  self, 
Moulded  by  some  deep,  mischief-ridden  elf 
So  meek,  so  maiden  mild, 
But  startling  the  close  gazer  with  the  sense 
Of  passion  forest-shy  and  forest-wild. 
And  delicate  delirious  merriments. 

As  a  moth  beats  sidewise 
And  up  and  over,  and  tries 


The  Young  Mother 

To  skirt  the  irresistible  lure 

Of  the  flame  that  has  him  sure, 

My  spirit,  that  is  none  too  strong  to-day, 

Flutters  and  makes  delay,  — 

Pausing  to  wonder  at  the  perfect  lips. 

Lifting  to  muse  upon  the  low-drawn  hair 

And  each  hid  radiance  there. 

But  powerless  to  stem  the  tide-race  bright, 

The  vehement  peace  which  drifts  it  toward 

the  light 
Where  soon  —  ah,  now,  with  cries 
Of  grief  and  giving-up  unto  its  gain 
It  shrinks  no  longer  nor  denies, 
But  dips 
Hurriedly  home  to  the  exquisite  heart  of 

pain,  — 
And  all  is  well,  for  I  have  seen  them  plain, 
The  unforgettable,  the  unforgotten  eyes  ! 
Across  the  blinding  gush  of  these  good  tears 
They  shine  as  in  the  sweet  and  heavy  years 
When  by  her  bed  and  chair 
We  children  gathered  jealously  to  share 
The  sunlit  aura  breathing  myrrh  and  thyme, 
Where  the  sore-stricken  body  made  a  clime 
Gentler  than  May  and  pleasanter  than  rhyme, 
Holier  and  more  mystical  than  prayer. 
God,  how  thy  ways  are  strange ! 
That  this  should  be,  even  this. 
The  patient  head 

Which  suffered  years  ago  the  dreary  change ! 
9 


To  Mother 

That  these  so  dewy  lips  should  be  the  same 

As  those  I  stooped  to  kiss 

And  heard  my  harrowing  half-spoken  name, 

A  little  ere  the  one  who  bowed  above  her, 

Our  father  and  her  very  constant  lover, 

Rose  stoical,  and  we  knew  that  she  was  dead. 

Then  I,  who  coidd  not  understand  or  share 

His  antique  nobleness. 

Being  unapt  to  bear 

The  insults  which  time  flings  us  for  our 

proof, 
Fled  from  the  horrible  roof 
Into  the  alien  sunshine  merciless, 
The  shrill  satiric  fields  ghastly  with  day 
Raging  to  front  God  in  his  pride  of  sway 
And  hurl  across  the  lifted  swords  of  fate 
That  ringed  Him  where  He  sat 
My  puny  gage  of  scorn  and  desolate  hate 
Which   somehow  should  undo  Him,  after 

aU! 
That  this  girl  face,  expectant,  virginal, 
Which  gazes  out  at  me 
Boon  as  a  sweetheart,  as  if  nothing  loth 
(Save    for    the    eyes,    with   other   presage 

stored) 
To  pledge  me  troth. 

And  in  the  kingdom  where  the  heart  is  lord 
Take  sail  on  the  terrible  gladness  of  the 

deep 
Whose  winds  the  gray  Norns  keep, — 
10 


The  Young  Mother 

That  this  should  be  indeed 

The  flesh  which  caught  iny  soul,  a  flying 

seed, 
Out  of  the  to  and  fro 
Of    scattering  hands  where  the   seedsman 

Mage, 
Stooping  from  star  to  star  and  age  to  age 
Sings  as  he  sows ! 
That  underneath  this  breast 
Nine  moons  I  fed 
Deep  of  divine  unrest, 
While  over  and  over  in  the  dark  she  said, 
"  Blessed !    but    not    as    happier    children 

blessed  "  — 
That  this  should  be 
Even  she  .  .  . 

God,  how  with  time  and  change 
Thou  makest  thy  footsteps  strange  ! 
Ah,  now  I  know 

They  play  upon  me,  and  it  is  not  so 
Why,  't  is  a  girl  I  never  saw  before, 
A  little  thing  to  flatter  and  make  weep, 
To  tease  until  her  heart  is  sore. 
Then  kiss  and  clear  the  score ; 
A  gypsy  run-the-fields, 
A  little  liberal  daughter  of  the  earth. 
Good  for  what  hour  of  truancy  and  mirth 
The  careless  season  yields 
Hither-side  the  flood  of  the  year  and  yonder 

of  the  neap ; 

n 


To  Mother 

Then  thank  you,  thanks  again,  and  twenty 
light  good-byes, — 

0  shrined  above  the  skies, 
Frown  not,  clear  brow. 
Darken  not,  holy  eyes ! 

Thou  knowest  well  I  know  that  it  is  thou 

Only  to  save  from  such  memories 

As  would  unman  me  quite, 

Here  in  this  web  of  strangeness  caught 

And  prey  to  troubled  thought 

Do  I  devise 

These  foolish  shifts  and  slight ; 

Only  to  shield  me  from  the  afflicting  sense 

Of  some  waste  influence 

Which  from  this  morning  face  and  lustrous 

hair 
Breathes  on  me  sudden  ruin  and  despair. 
In  any  other  guise, 

With  any  but  this  girlish  depth  of  gaze. 
Your    coming   had    not    so    unsealed    and 

poured 
The  dusty  amphoras  where  I  had  stored 
The  drippings  of  the  winepress  of  my  days. 

1  think  these  eyes  foresee, 

Now  in  their  unawakened  virgin  time. 
Their  mother's  jjride  in  me. 
And  dream  even  now,  unconsciously. 
Upon  each  soaring  peak  and  sky-hung  lea 
You  pictured  I  should  climb. 
Broken  premonitions  come, 
12 


The  Young  Mother 

Shapes,  gestures  visionary, 

Not  as  once  to  maiden  Mary 

The  manifest  angel  with  fresh  lilies  came 

Intelligibly  calling  her  by  name ; 

But  vanishingly,  dumb, 

Thwarted  and  bright  and  wild, 

As  heralding  a  sin-defiled. 

Earth-encumbered,  blood-begotten,  passion- 
ate man-child. 

Who  yet  should  be  a  trump  of  mighty  call 

Blown  in  the  gates  of  evil  kings 

To  make  them  fall ; 

Who  yet  should  be  a  sword  of  flame  before 

The  soul's  inviolate  door 

To  beat  away  the  clang  of  hellish  wings ; 

Who  yet  should  be  a  lyre 

Of  high  unquenchable  desire 

In  the  day  of  little  things, — 

Look  where  the  amphoras, 

The  yield  of  many  days, 

Trod    by   my   hot    soul    from   the    pulp   of 
self, 

And  set  upon  the  shelf 

In  sullen  pride 

The  Vineyard-master's  tasting  to  abide  — 

O  mother  mine ! 

Are  these  the  bringings-in,  the  doings  fine 

Of  him  who  used  to  praise  ? 

Emptied  and  overthrown 

The  jars  lie  strown. 

13 


To  Mother 

These,  for  their  flavor  duly  nursed, 

Drip  from  the  stopples  vinegar  accursed ; 

These,  I  thought  honied  to  the  very  seal, 

Dry,  dry,  —  a  little  acid  meal, 

A  pinch  of  mouldy  dust. 

Sole  leavings  of  the  amber-mantling  must ; 

These  rude  to  look  upon. 

But  flasking  up  the  liquor  dearest  won, 

Through  sacred  hours  and  hard. 

With  watchings   and  with  wrestlings    and 

with  grief. 
Even  of  these,  of  these  in  chief. 
The  stale  breath  sickens  reeking  from  the 

shard. 
Nothing  is  left.  Aye,  how  much  less  than 

naught ! 
What  shall  be  said  or  thought 
Of  the  slack  hours  and  waste  imaginings. 
The  cynic  rending  of  the  wings, 
Known  to  the  froward,   that  unreckoning 

heart 
Whereof  this  brewage  was  the  precious  part, 
Treasured  and  set  away  with  furtive  boast  ? 
O  dear  and  cruel  ghost, 
Be  merciful,  be  just ! 
See,  I  was  yours  and  I  am  in  the  dust. 
Then  look  not  so,  as  if  all  things  were  well ! 
Take  your  eyes  from  me,  leave  me  to  my 

shame, 
Or  else,  if  gaze  they  must, 
14 


The  Young  Mother 

Steel  them  with  judgment,  darken  them  with 

blame ; 
But  by  the  ways  of  light  ineffable 
You  bade  me  go  and  I  have  faltered  from, 
By  the  low  waters  moaning  out  of  hell 
Whereto  my  feet  have  come, 
Lay  not  on  me  these  intolerable 
Looks  of  rejoicing  love,  of  pride,  of  happy 

trust ! 

Nothing  dismayed? 

By  all  I  say  and  all  I  hint  not  made 

Afraid? 

O  then,  stay  by  me  !  Let 

These  eyes  afflict  me,  cleanse  me,  keep  me 

yet, 

Brave  eyes  and  true ! 

See  how  the  shriveled  heart,  that  long  has 

lain 
Dead  to  delight  and  pain. 
Stirs,  and  begins  again 
To  utter  pleasant  life,  as  if  it  knew 
The  wintry  days  were  through ; 
As  if  in  its  awakening  boughs  it  heard 
The  quick,  sweet-spoken  bird. 
Strong  eyes  and  brave, 
Inexorable  to  save ! 

William  Vaughn  Moody 


16 


To  Mother 

BABY'S   SKIES 

Would  you  know  the  baby's  skies  ? 
Baby's  skies  are  mother's  eyes. 
Mother's  eyes  and  smile  together 
Make  the  baby's  pleasant  weather. 

Mother,  keep  your  eyes  from  tears, 
Keep  your  heart  from  foolish  fears. 
Keep  your  lips  from  dull  complaining 
Lest  the  baby  think  't  is  raining. 

M.  a  Barthtt 


THE  MOTHER'S   RETURN 

A  MONTH,  sweet  little  ones,  is  past 
Since  your  dear  mother  went  away,  — 
And  she  to-morrow  will  return  ; 
To-morrow  is  the  happy  day. 

O  blessed  tidings  I  thought  of  joy  I 
The  eldest  heard  with  steady  glee : 
Silent  he  stood  ;  then  laughed  amain,  — 
And  shouted,  "  Mother,  come  to  me !  " 

Louder  and  louder  did  he  shout. 
With  witless  hope  to  bring  her  near ; 
Nay,  patience !  patience,  little  boy ! 
Your  tender  mother  cannot  hear." 
16 


The  Young  Mother 

I  told  of  hills,  and  far-off  towns, 
And  long,  long  vales  to  travel  through ; 
He  listens,  puzzled,  sore  perplexed, 
But  he  submits ;  what  can  he  do  ? 

No  strife  disturbs  his  sister's  breast ; 
She  wars  not  with  the  Mystery 
Of  time  and  distance,  night  and  day ; 
The  bonds  of  our  humanity, 

Her  joy  is  like  an  instinct,  joy 
Of  kitten,  bird,  or  summer  fly ; 
She  dances,  runs  without  an  aim, 
She  chatters  in  her  ecstasy. 

Her  brother  now  takes  up  the  note, 
And  answers  back  his  sister's  glee: 
They  hug  the  infant  in  my  arms, 
As  if  to  force  his  sympathy. 

Then,  settling  into  fond  discourse. 
We  rested  in  the  garden  bower ; 
While  sweetly  shone  the  evening  sun 
In  his  departing  hour. 

We  told  o'er  all  that  we  had  done,  — 
Our  rambles  by  the  swift  brook's  side 
Far  as  the  willow-skirted  pool. 
Where  two  fair  swans  together  glide. 
17 


To  Mother 

We  talked  of  cliange,  of  winter  gone, 
Of  green  leaves  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 
Of  birds  that  build  their  nests  and  sing. 
And  all  "  since  mother  went  away ! " 

To  her  these  tales  they  will  repeat, 
To  her  our  new-born  tribes  will  show, 
The  goslings  green,  the  ass's  colt. 
The  lambs  that  in  the  meadow  go. 

But  see,  the  evening  star  comes  forth ! 
To  bed  the  children  must  depart ; 
A  moment's  heaviness  they  feel, 
A  sadness  at  the  heart : 

'T  is  gone  —  and  in  a  merry  fit 
They  rrni  up  stairs  in  gamesome  race ; 
I,  too,  infected  by  their  mood, 
I  could  have  joined  the  wanton  chase. 

Five  minutes  past  —  and,  O  the  change  I 
Asleep  upon  their  beds  they  lie  ; 
Their  busy  limbs  in  perfect  rest. 
And  closed  the  sparkling  eye. 

Dorothy  Wordsworth 

SONG   FROM   "THE  PRINCESS" 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead ; 

She  nor  swoon'd  nor  utter'd  cry. 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

18 


The  Young  Mother 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call'd  hhn  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  — 
"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

Alfred  Tennyson 


ALISON'S    MOTHER   TO   THE 
BROOK 

Brook,  of  the  listening  grass. 
Brook  of  the  sun-fleckt  wings. 
Brook  of  the  same  wild  way  and  flicker- 
ing spell ! 
Must    you    begone?     Will    you    forever 

pass, 
After  so  man}'  years  and  dear  to  tell?  — 
Brook  of  all  hoverings  .  . 
Brook  that  I  kneel  above  ; 
Brook  of  my  love. 

19 


To  Mother 

Ah,  but  I  have  a  charm  to  trouble  you  ; 
A  spell  that  shall  subdue 
Your  all-escaping-heart,  unheedful  one 
And  unrememberinsf ! 
Now,  when  I  make  ray  prayer 
To  your  wild  brightness  there 
That  will  but  run  and  run, 
O  mindless  Water !  — 
Hark,  —  now  will  I  bring 
A  grace  as  wild,  —  my  little  yearling  daugh- 
ter, 
My  Alison. 

Heed  well  that  threat ; 

And  tremble  for  your  hill-born  liberty 

So  bright  to  see  !  — 

Your  shadow-dappled  way,  unthwarted  yet, 

And  the  high  hills  whence  all  your  dearness 

bubbled ;  — 
You,  never  to  possess ! 
For  let  her  dip  but  once  —  O  fair  and  fleet,  — 
Here  in  your  shallows,  yes. 
Here  in  your  silverness 
Her  two  blithe  feet,  — 
O  Brook  of  mine,  how  shall  your  heart  be 

troubled ! 

The  heart,  the  bright  unmothering  heart  of 

you, 
That  never  knew,  — 
20 


The  Young  Mother 

(O  never,  more  than  mine  of  long  ago. 

How  could  we  know? — ) 

For  who  should  guess 

The    shock   and    smiting  of   that   perfect- 

ness  ?  — 
The  lily-thrust  of  those  ecstatic  feet 
Unpityingly  sweet  ?  — 
Sweet  beyond  all  the  blurred  blind  dreams 

that  grope 
The  upward  paths  of  hope  ? 
And  who  could  guess 
The  dulcet  holiness, 

The  lilt  and  gladness  of  those  jocund  feet, 
Unpityingly  sweet? 
Ah,  for  your  coolness  that  shall  change  and 

stir 
With  every  glee  of  her !  — 
Under  the  fresh  amaze 
That  drips  and  glistens  from  her  wiles  and 

ways; 
When  the  endearing  air 
That  everywhere 

Must  twine  and  fold  and  follow  her,  shall  be 
Ri])pled  to  ring  on  ring  of  melody, — 
Music,  like  shadows  from  the  joy  of  her, 
Small  starry  Reveller!  — 
When  from  her  triumphings, — 
All  frolic  wings  — 

There  soars  beyond  tlie  glories  of  tlie  lieight, 
The  laugh  of  her  delijrht. 

21 


To  Mother 

And  it  shall  sound,  until 

Your  heart  stand  still; 

Shaken  to  human  sight; 

Struck  through  with  tears  and  li^ht; 

One  with  the  one  desire 

Unto  that  central  Fire 

Of  Love  the  Sun,  whence  all  we  lighted  are 

Even  from  clod  to  star. 

And   all   your   glory,    O    most   swift    and 

sweet !  — 
And  all  your  exultation  only  this ; 
To  be  the  lowly  and  forgotten  kiss 
Beneath  those  feet. 

You  that  must  ever  pass,  — 
You  of  the  same  wild  way, — 

The  silver-bright  good-bye  without  a  look ! 

You  that  would  never  stay, 
For  the  beseeching  grass  .  .  . 
Brook !  — 

Jo&ephine  Preston  Peahody 

CHILDREN'S  KISSES 

So;  it  is  nightfall  then. 
The  vaUey  flush 

That  beckoned  home  the  way  for  herds 
and  men. 
Is  hardly  spent. 

22 


The  Young  Mother 

Down  the  bright  pathway  winds,  through 

veils  of  hush 
And  wonderment. 
Uu  uttered  yet,  the  chime 
That  tells  of  folding-time ; 
Hardly  the  sun  has  set. 
The  trees  are  sweetly  troubled  with  bright 

words 
From  new-alighted  birds;  — 
And  yet,  .  .  . 
Here,  —  round  my  neck,  are  come  to  cling 

and  twine, 
The  arms,  the  folding  arms,  close,  close  and 

fain, 
All  mine!  — 
I  pleaded  to,  in  vain, 

I  reached  for,  only  to  their  dimpled  scorning, 
Down  the  blue  halls  of  Morning ; 

Where  all  things  else  could  lure  them  on 

and  on. 
Now  here,  now  gone, — 
From  bush  to  bush,  from  beckoning  bough 

to  bough. 
With  bird-calls  of  Come  Hither!  — 

.  .  .  Ah,  but  now, 
Now  it  is  dusk.  —  And  from  his  heaven  of 

mirth, 
A  wilding  skylark,  sudden  dropt  to  earth 
Along  the  last  low  sunbeam  yellow  mo  ted, 
23 


To  Mother 

Athrob  with  joy,  — 

There  pushes  here,  a  little  golden  Boy, 

Still-gazing  with  great  eyes. 

And  wonder-wise, 

All  fragrancy,  all  valor  silver-throated. 

My  daughterling,  my  swan, 

My  Alison ! 

Closer  than  homing  lambs  against  the  bars 
At   folding-time,    that   crowd,   all    mother- 
warm. 
They  crowd,  —  they  cling,  they  wreathe ; 
And  thick  as  sparkles  of  the  thronging  stars, 
Their  kisses  swarm. 

O  Rose  of  being,  at  whose  heart  I  breathe, 

Fold  over;  hold  me  fast 

In  the  dark  Eden  of  a  blinding  kiss. 

And  lightning  heart's-desire,  be  still  at  last! 

Heart  can  no  more,  — 

Life  can  no  more, 

Than  this. 

Josephine  Preston  Pedbody 

MATERNAL  GRIEF 

Departed  Child  !  I  could  forget  thee  once 
Though  at  my  bosom  nursed;  this  woeful 

gain 
Thy  dissolution  brings,  that  in  my  soul 

24 


The  Young  Mother 

Is  present  and  perpetually  abides 
A  shadow,  never,  never  to  be  displaced 
By  the  retiu*ning  substance,  seen  or  touched, 
Seen  by  mine  eyes,  or  clasped  in  my  embrace. 
Absence  and  death  how  differ  they !  and  how 
Shall  I  admit  that  nothing  can  restore 
What  one  short  sigh  so  easily  removed?  — 
Death,  life,  and  sleep,  reality  and  thought, 
Assist  me,  God,  their  boundaries  to  know, 
O  teach  me  calm  submission  to  thy  Will ! 
The  Child  she  mourned  had  overstepped  the 

pale 
Of  Infancy,  but  still  did  breathe  the  air 
That  sanctifies  its  confines,  and  partook 
Reflected  beams  of  that  celestial  light 
To  all  the  Little-ones  on  sinful  earth 
Not  un vouchsafed  —  a   light  that  warmed 

and  cheered 
Those  several  qualities  of  heart  and  mind 
Which,  in  her  own  blest  nature,  rooted  deep, 
Daily  before  the  Mother's  watchful  eye, 
And  not  hers  only,  their  peculiar  charms 
Unfolded,  —  beauty,  for  its  present  self, 
And  for  its  promises  to  future  years, 
With  not  unfrequent  rapture  fondly  hailed. 
Have  you  espied  upon  a  dewy  lawn 
A  pair  of  Leverets  each  pi-ovoking  each 
To  a  continuance  of  their  fearless  sport, 
Two  separate  Creatures  in  their  several  gifts 
Abounding,  but  so  fashioned  that,  in  all 
25 


To  Mother 

That  Nature  prompts  them  to  display,  their 

looks, 
Their  starts  of  motion  and  their  fits  of  rest, 
An  undistinguishable  style  appears 
And  character  of  gladness,  as  if  Spring 
Lodged  in  their  innocent  bosoms,  and  the 

spirit 
Of  rejoicing  morning  were  their  own? 
Such  union,  in  the  lovely  Girl  maintained 
And  her  twin  Brother,  had  the  parent  seen, 
Ere,  pouncing  like  a  ravenous  bird  of  prey, 
Death  in  a  moment  parted  them,  and  left 
The  Mother,  in  her  turns  of  anguish,  worse 
Than  desolate ;  for  oft-times  from  the  sound 
Of  the  survivor's  sweetest  voice  (dear  child. 
He  knew  it  not)   and  from    his  happiest 

looks, 
Did  she  extract  the  food  of  self-reproach. 
As  one  that  lived  ungrateful  for  the  stay 
By  Heaven  afforded  to  uphold  her  maimed 
And  tottering  spirit.  And  full  oft  the  Boy, 
Now  first  acquainted  with  distress  and  grief. 
Shrunk  from  his  Mother's  presence,  shunned 

with  fear 
Her  sad  approach,  and  stole  away  to  find. 
In  his  known  haunts  of  joy  where'er  he 

might, 
A  more  congenial  object.  But,  as  time 
Softened  her  pangs  and  reconciled  the  child 
To  what  he  saw,  he  gradually  returned, 
26 


The  Young  Mother 

Like  a  scared  Bird  encouraged  to  renew 
A  broken  intercourse ;  and,  while  liis  eyes 
Were  yet  with  pensive  fear  and  gentle  awe 
Turned  upon  her  who  bore  hira,  she  would 

stoop 
To  imprint  a  kiss  that  lacked  not  power  to 

spread 
Faint  color  over  both  their  pallid  cheeks, 
And  stilled  his  tremulous  lip.  Thus  they 

were  calmed 
And  cheered;   and   now    together    breathe 

fresh  air 
In  open  fields ;  and  when  the  glare  of  day 
Is  gone,  and  twilight  to  the  Mother's  wish 
Befriends  the  observance,  readily  they  join 
In  walks  whose  boundary  is  the  lost  One's 

grave. 
Which  he  with  flowers  had  planted,  finding 

there 
Amusement,  where  the   Mother    does    not 

miss 
Dear  consolation,  kneeling  on  the  turf 
In  prayer,  yet   blending  with  that   solemn 

rite 
Of  pious  faith  the  vanities  of  grief ; 
For  such,  by  pitying  Angels  and  by  S})irits 
Transferred  to  regions  upon  which  the  clouds 
Of  our  weak  nature  rest  not,  must  be  deemed 
Those  willing  tears,  and  unforbidden  sighs. 
And  all  those  tokens  of  a  cherished  sorrow, 
27 


To  Mother 

Which,  soothed  and  sweetened  by  the  grace 

of  Heaven 
As  now  it  is,  seems  to  her  own  fond  heart, 
Immortal  as  the  love  that  gave  it  being. 

William  Wordsworth 


SONGS  FOR  MY  MOTHER 
I 

HER   HANDS 

My  mother's  hands  are  cool  and  fair, 

They  can  do  anything. 
Delicate  mercies  hide  them  there 

Like  flowers  in  the  spring. 

When  I  was  small  and  could  not  sleep, 

She  used  to  come  to  me, 
And  with  my  cheek  upon  her  hand 

How  sure  my  rest  woidd  be. 

For  everything  she  ever  touched 

Of  beautiful  or  fine. 
Their  memories  living  in  her  hands 

Would  warm  that  sleep  of  mine. 

Her  hands  remember  how  they  played 
One  time  in  meadow  streams,  — 

And  all  the  flickering  song  and  shade 
Of  water  took  my  dreams. 

28 


Tlie  Young  Mother 

Swift  through  her  haunted  fingers  pass 
Memories  of  garden  things ;  — 

I  dipped  my  face  in  flowers  and  grass 
And  sounds  of  hidden  wings. 

One  time  she  touched  the  cloud  that  kissed 
Brown  pastures  bleak  and  far ;  — 

I  leaned  my  cheek  into  a  mist 
And  thought  I  was  a  star. 

All  this  was  very  long  ago 

And  I  am  grown ;  but  yet 
The  hand  that  lured  my  slumber  so 

I  never  can  forget. 

For  stiU  when  drowsiness  comes  on 

It  seems  so  soft  and  cool, 
Shaped  happily  beneath  my  cheek. 

Hollow  and  beautiful. 

II 

HER   WORDS 

My  mother  has  the  prettiest  tricks 
Of  words  and  words  and  words. 

Her  talk  comes  out  as  smootli  and  sleek 
As  breasts  of  singing  birds. 

She  shapes  her  speech  all  silver  fine 

Because  she  loves  it  so. 
And  her  own  eyes  begin  to  shine 

To  hear  lier  stories  grow. 

29 


To  Mother 

And  if  she  goes  to  make  a  call 

Or  out  to  take  a  walk 
We  leave  our  work  when  she  returns 

And  run  to  hear  her  talk. 

We  had  not  dreamed  these  things  were  so 

Of  sorrow  and  of  mirth. 
Her  speech  is  as  a  thousand  eyes 

Through  which  we  see  the  earth. 

God  wove  a  web  of  loveliness, 
Of  clouds  and  stars  and  birds, 

But  made  not  anything  at  all 
So  beautiful  as  words. 

They  shine  around  our  simple  earth 

With  golden  shadowings. 
And  every  common  thing  they  touch 

Is  exquisite  with  wings. 

There  's  nothing  poor  and  nothing  small 

But  is  made  fair  with  them. 
They  are  the  hands  of  living  faith 

That  touch  the  garment's  hem. 

They  are  as  fair  as  bloom  or  air. 

They  shine  like  any  star, 
And  I  am  rich  who  learned  from  her 

How  beautiful  they  are. 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch 


MOTHERS  of  MEN 


MOTHER  AND   POET 

Dead  !  One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the 
east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the 
sea. 
Dead!  both  my  boys!  "When  you  sit  at  the 
feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy 

free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  I 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year. 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman  men 
said ; 
But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agoniz'd  here, 
—  The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in 

her  head 
Forever  instead. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?  Oh,  vain ! 

What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her 

breast 

With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile 

at  the  pain  ? 

Ah  boys,  how  you  hurt !  you  were  strong 

as  you  pressed 
And  T  jiroud,  by  that  test. 
:i:5 


To  Mother 

What  art's  for  a  woman?   To  hold  on 
her  knees 
Both  darlings;  to  feel  all  their  arms 
round  her  throat, 
Cling,   strangle  a  Httle,  to    sew  by  de- 
grees 
And  'broider  the  long-clothes  and  neat 

little  coat ; 
To  dream  and  to  doat. 

To  teach  them.  ...  It  stings  there!    I 
made  them  indeed 
Speak  plain  the  word  country.  I  taught 
them,  no  doubt, 
That  a  country  's  a  thing  men  should  die 
for  at  need. 
I  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 

And  when  their  eyes  flashed  .  .  .  O  my 
beautiful  eyes!  .  .  . 
I  exulted  ;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the 
wheels 
Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.    But  then 
the  surprise 
When  one  sits  quite  alone !    Then  one 

weeps,  then  one  kneels ! 
God,  how  the  house  feels ! 


34 


Mothers  of  Men 

At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters 
moil'd 
With  my  kisses, — of  camp-life  and  glory, 
and  how 
They  both  lov'd  me ;  and,  soon  coming  home 
to  be  spoil'd, 
In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from  my 

brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin  :  "  Ancona  was 
free ! " 
And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in 
the  street. 
With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something 
to  me. 
My  Guido  was  dead !    I  fell  down  at  his 

feet, 
While  they  cheer'd  in  the  street. 

I  bore  it ;    friends    sooth'd   me ;    my  grief 
look'd  sublime 
As  the  ransom  of   Italy.    One  boy  re- 
main'd 
To  be  leant  on  and  walk'd  with,  recalling 
the  time 
When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both 

of  them  strain'd 
To  the  height  he  had  gain'd. 
86 


To  Mother 

And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder,  more 
strong, 
Writ  now,  but  in  one  hand,  "  I  was  not 
to  faint,  — 
One  lov'd  me  for  two  —  would  be  with  me 
ere  long: 
And  Viva  V Italia !  —  he  died  for,    our 

saint. 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

My  Nanni  would  add,  "  he  was  safe,  and 
aware 
Of  a  presence  that  turn'd  off  the  balls,  — 
was  impress'd 
It  was  Guido   himself,  who  knew  what   I 
could  bear. 
And    how    't  was   impossible,  quite   dis- 

possess'd. 
To  live  on  for  the  rest." 

On  which  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph- 
line. 
Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta: 
—  Shot. 
Tell  his  mother.    Ah,  ah,  "his,"  "their" 
mother,  —  not  "  mine," 
No  voice  says  "  J/2/ mother  "  again  to  me. 

What ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot? 
36 


Mothers  of  Men 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy  with 
Heaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affections,  conceive  not 
of  woe? 
I  think  not.  Themselves  were  too  lately  for- 
given 
Through  that  Love  and  Sorrow  which  reo- 

oncil'd  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 

O  Christ  of   the  five  wounds,  who  look'st 
through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  Thy  Mother !  consider  I 
pray, 
How  we  common  mothers   stand  desolate, 
mark. 
Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with 

eyes  turn'd  away. 
And  no  last  word  to  say! 

Both  boys  dead  ?  but  that 's  out  of  nature. 
We  all 
Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must 
always  keep  one. 
'T  were   imbecile,    hewing   out   roads  to  a 
wall; 
And  when  Italy  's  made,  for  what  end  is 

it  done 
If  wo  have  not  a  son? 
37 


64219 


To  Mother 

Ah,  ah,    ah!    when    Gaeta 's    taken,    what 
then? 
When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more 
at  her  sport 
Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashing  souls  out 
of  men? 
When  the  guns  of  Ca villi  with  final  re- 
tort 
Have  cut  the  game  short  ? 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  own 
jubilee. 
When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its 
white,  green,  and  red. 
When  you  have  your  country  from  mountain 
to  sea, 
When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on 

his  head, 
(And  I  have  my  Dead)  — 

What  then?    Do  not  mock  me.    Ah,  ring 
your  bells  low, 
And  burn  your  lights  faintly !  My  country 
is  there^ 
Above  the  star  prick'd  by  the  last  peak  of 
snow: 
My  Italy 's  there^  with    my  brave   civic 

Pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair! 
88 


Mothers  of  Men 

Forgive  me.    Some  women  bear  children  in 
strength, 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in 
self-scorn ; 
But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring  us 
at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this  —  and  we  sit  on 

forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

Dead!  One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the 
east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the 
sea. 
Both !  both  my  boys !  If  in  keeping  the  feast, 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

MOTHER   WEPT 

Mother  wept,  and  father  sigh'd ; 

With  delight  a-glow 
Cried  the  lad,  "  To-morrow,"  cried, 
"  To  the  pit  I  go." 

Up  and  down  the  place  he  sped. 

Greeted  old  and  young, 
Far  and  wide  the  tidings  spread, 

Clapp'd  his  hands  and  sung. 
39 


To  Mother 

Came  his  cronies,  some  to  gaze 

Rapt  in  wonder  ;  some 
Free  with  counsel ;  some  with  praise ; 

Some  with  envy  dumb. 

"  May  he,"  many  a  gossip  cried, 

"  Be  from  peril  kept "  ; 
Father  hid  his  face  and  sighed. 
Mother  turned  and  wept. 

Joseph  SMpsey 

HOW'S   MY  BOY? 

"  Ho,  Sailor  of  the  sea ! 

How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ?  " 
"  What 's  your  boy's  name,  good  wife, 

And  in  what  good  ship  sail'd  he?" 
"  My  boy  John  — 

He  that  went  to  sea  — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor? 

My  boy  's  my  boy  to  me. 

"  You  come  back  from  sea. 
And  not  know  my  John? 
I  might  as  well  have  ask'd  some  landsman 
Yonder  down  in  the  town. 
There  's  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 
But  he  knows  my  John. 

"  How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
And  unless  you  let  me  know 

40 


'^i 


Mothers  of  Men 

I  '11  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 

Blue  jacket  or  no, 

Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor, 

Anchor  or  cro^^'n  or  no  ! 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  Jolly  Briton  "  — 
"  Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low !  " 
"  And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 

About  my  own  boy  John? 

If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud 

I  'd  sing  him  over  the  town ! 

Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor  ?  " 
"  That  good  ship  went  down." 

"  How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 

AVhat  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 

I  was  never  aboard  her. 

Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground. 

Sinking  or  swimming,  I  '11  be  bound, 

Her  owners  can  afford  her ! 

I  say  how 's  my  John  ?  " 
"  Every  man  on  board  went  down. 

Every  man  aboard  her." 

"  Plow  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor  ? 
I  'm  not  their  mother  — 
How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other  ! 
How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy?" 

Sidney  Dohell 
41 


To  Mother 
THE  SAD  MOTHER 

0  WHEN  the  half-light  weaves 
Wild  shadows  on  the  floor, 

How  ghostly  come  the  withered  leaves 
Stealing  about  my  door ! 

1  sit  and  hold  my  breath, 

Lone  in  the  lonely  house  ; 
Naught  breaks  the  silence  still  as  death, 
Only  a  creeping  mouse. 

The  patter  of  leaves,  it  may  be, 

But  liker  patter  of  feet. 
The  small  feet  of  my  own  baby 

That  never  felt  the  heat. 

The  small  feet  of  my  son, 
Cold  as  the  graveyard  sod ; 

My  little,  dumb,  unchristened  one 
That  may  not  win  to  God. 

"Come  in,  dear  babe,"  I  cry, 
Opening  the  door  so  wide. 
The  leaves  go  stealing  softly  by; 
How  dark  it  is  outside! 

And  though  I  kneel  and  pray 
Long  on  the  threshold-stone 
The  little  feet  press  on  their  way. 
And  I  am  ever  alone, 

Katharine  Tynan  Hinhson 
42 


Mothers  of  Men 

AN  ABORIGINAL  MOTHER'S 
LAMENT 

Still  farther  would  I  fl}',  my  child, 

To  make  thee  safer  yet, 
From  the  unsparing  white  man, 

With  his  dread  hand  murder-wet ! 
I  '11  bear  thee  on  as  I  have  borne 

With  stealthy  steps  wind-fleet, 
But  the  dark  night  shrouds  the  forest, 

And  thorns  are  in  my  feet. 

O  moan  not !  I  would  give  this  braid  — 

Thy  father's  gift  to  me  — 
But  for  a  single  palmful 

Of  water  now  for  thee. 

Ah !  spring  not  to  his  name  —  no  more 

To  glad  us  may  he  come — 
He  is  smoldering  into  ashes 

Beneath  the  blasted  gum  : 
All  charred  and  blasted  by  the  fire 

The  white  man  kindled  there. 
And  fed  with  our  slaughtered  kindred 

Till  heaven-high  went  its  glare ! 

And  but  for  thee,  I  would  their  fire 

Had  eaten  me  as  fast ! 
Hark!   Hark!   I  hear  his  death-cry 

Yet  lengthening  up  the  blast! 

43 


To  Mother 

But  no — when  his  bound  hands  had  signed 
The  way  that  we  should  fly, 

On  the  roaring  pyre  flung  bleeding  — 
I  saw  thy  father  die ! 

No  more  shall  his  loud  tomahawk 

Be  plied  to  win  our  cheer, 
Or  the  shining  fish  pools  darken 

Beneath  his  shadowing  spear: 
The  fading  tracks  of  his  fleet  foot 

Shall  guide  not  as  before, 
And  the  mountain-spirits  mimic 

His  hunting  call  no  more! 

O  moan  not !  I  would  give  this  braid  — 

Thy  father's  gift  to  me  — 
For  but  a  single  palmful 

Of  water  now  for  thee. 

Charles  Harimr 

LINES  TO  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE 

O  THAT  those  lips  had  language !  Life  has 

passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since   I  heard  thee 

last. 
Those  lips  are  thine,  —  thy  own  sweet  smile 

I  see. 
The   same    that   oft    in   childhood    solaced 

me; 

44 


Mothers  of  Men 

Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
*'  Grieve  not,  my  child ;  chase  all  thy  fears 

away!" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it !)  here  shines  on  me  still  the 

same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bid'st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song. 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  chann  for  my  relief. 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  revery, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 
My  mother!  when   I  learned  that  thou 
wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing'  son, 
Wretch  even  then.  Life's  journey  just  be- 
gun? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unfelt,  a 

kiss; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss  — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile !  it  answers  —  Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  tliy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
45 


To  Mother 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu. 
But  was  it  such?  It  was.  Where  thou  art 

gone. 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  words  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  con- 
cern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return ; 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived; 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled. 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  for- 
got. 
Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard 
no  more. 
Children  not   thine  have  trod  my  nursery 

floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bawble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped, 
'T  is  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our 
own. 

46 


Mothers  of  Men 

Sliort-lived  possession  !  but  the  record  fair, 
That   memory  keeps    of   all   thy   kindness 

there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly 

laid,  — 
All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 
Ne'er   roughened   by   those   cataracts   and 

breaks 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes,  — 
All  this,  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere. 
Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed 

here. 
Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore 

the  hours 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued 

flowers. 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And    thou   wast  happier  than   myself  the 

while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head, 

and  smile,)  — 
47 


To  Mother 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish 

them  here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart, —  the  dear  de- 
light 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 
But  no,  —  what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain, 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,   as  a  gallant  bark  from   albion's 
coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean 

crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe  and  brighter  seasons 

smile ; 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below. 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around   her,  fanning    light  her  streamers 

gay,— 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reached 

the  shore. 
Where  tempests  never  beat,  nor  billows  roar ; 
And  thy  loved  consort,  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life,  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  dis- 
tressed,— 

48 


Mothers  of  Men 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest- 
tossed, 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  com- 
pass lost ; 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting 

force 
Sets    me    more  distant  from  a  prosperous 

course. 
Yet  O,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and 

he!  — 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
]My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From   loins   enthroned,  and  rulers  of   the 

earth ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise,  — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now  farewell !  —  Time,  unrevoked,  has 

run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is 

done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have   lived    my  childhood   o'er 

again,  — 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine ; 
And  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  sliow  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft,  — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

William  Coirper 
49 


To  Mother 

MY  MOTHEK'S   BIBLE 

This  book  Is  all  that 's  left  me  now,  — 

Tears  will  unbidden  start,  — 
With  faltering  lip  and  throbbing  brow 

I  press  it  to  my  heart. 
For  many  generations  past, 

Here  is  our  family  tree ; 
My  mother's  hands  this  Bible  clasped, 

She,  dying,  gave  it  me. 

Ah !  well  do  I  remember  those 

Whose  names  these  records  bear; 
Who  round  the  hearthstone  used  to 
close. 

After  the  evening  prayer, 
And  speak  of  what  these  pages  said 

In  tones  my  heart  would  thrill ! 
Though  they  are  with  the  silent  dead, 

Here  are  they  living  still! 

My  father  read  this  holy  book 

To  brothers,  sisters,  dear  ; 
How  calm  was  my  poor  mother's  look, 

Who  loved  God's  word  to  hear ! 
Her  angel  face, —  I  see  it  yet ! 

What  thronging  memories  come ! 
Again  that  little  group  is  met 

Within  the  halls  of  home  ! 
50 


Mothers  of  Men 

Thou  truest  friend  man  ever  knew, 

Thy  constancy  I  've  tried ; 
When  all  were  false,  I  found  thee  true, 

My  counselor  and  guide. 
The  mines  of  earth  no  treasures  give 

That  could  this  volume  buy ; 
In  teaching  me  the  way  to  live, 

It  taught  me  how  to  die! 

George  Poj)e  Morris 


TWO   SONS 

I  HAVE  two  sons,  wife  — 
Two  and  yet  the  same ; 
One  his  wild  way  runs,  wife, 
Bringing  us  to  shame. 
The   one  is  bearded,   sunburnt,  grim,  and 

fights  across  the  sea. 
The  other  is  a  little  child  who  sits  upon  your 
knee. 

One  is  fierce  and  cold,  wife. 

As  the  wayward  deep  ; 
Him  no  arras  could  hold,  wife. 
Him  no  breast  could  keep. 
He  has  tried  our  hearts  for  many  a  year,  not 

broken  them  ;  for  he 
Is  still  the  sinless  little  one  that  sits  upon 
your  knee. 

51 


To  Mother 

One  may  fall  in  fight,  wife, 

Is  he  not  our  son? 
Pray  with  all  your  might,  wife, 
For  the  wayward  one; 
Pray  for  the  dark,  rough  soldier,  who  fights 

across  the  sea. 
Because  you  love  the  little  shade  who  smiles 
upon  your  knee. 

One  across  the  foam,  wife. 

As  I  speak  may  fall ; 
But  this  one  at  home,  wife, 
Cannot  die  at  all. 
They  both  are  only  one ;  and  how  thankful 

should  we  be, 
We  cannot  lose  the  darling  son  who  sits  upon 
your  knee ! 

Robert  Buchanan 


MOTHER  TO  SON 

Befoee  I  knew  the  love  of  man 
The  lovely  dream  of  you  began. 
When  I  said,  "  Jesus  meek  and  mild," 
My  Jesus  was  a  little  child. 
I  nursed  the  kitten  on  my  knee. 
And  nursed  you  where  no  eye  could  see. 
When  I  grew  up  to  woman's  grace 
I  saw  you  in  your  father's  face, 
52 


Mothers  of  Men 

Your  hands  were  beating  at  ray  breast, 
And  gave  my  womanhood  no  rest, 
Yoi;r  little  soul  called  each  to  each, 
And  laid  bright  heaven  in  our  reach. 
My  body  fed  your  body,  son, 
But  birth  's  a  swift  thing,  swiftly  done, 
Compared  to  one-and-twenty  years 
Of  feeding  you  with  spirit's  tears. 
I  could  not  make  your  mind  and  soul, 
But  my  glad  hands  have  kept  you  whole, 
And  tears  have  kept  God's  pastures  green, 
And  washed  the  temple  sweet  and  clean. 
Think  you  that  I  have  lived  in  vain 
These  years  of  wonder,  joy,  and  pain  ? 
The  years  when  Jesus  meek  and  mild 
Was  my  beloved  little  child ! 
And  when  the  first  sliy  touch  of  things 
Waked  in  my  heart  a  thousand  springs, 
And  bade  me  open  childhood's  gate 
And  give  my  woman's  hand  to  fate ! 
The  moment  when  your  groping  hands 
Bound  me  to  life  with  ruthless  bands, 
When  all  my  living  became  a  prayer. 
And  all  my  days  built  up  a  stair 
For  your  young  feet  that  trod  behind, 
That  you  an  aspiring  way  should  find  ! 
Think  you  that  life  can  give  you  pain, 
Which  does  not  stab  in  me  again? 
Think  you  that  life  can  give  you  pleasure 
Which  is  not  iny  undying  treasure? 


To  Mother 

Think  you  that  life  can  give  you  shame 
Which  does  not  make  my  pride  go  lame? 
And  you  can  do  no  evil  thing 
Which  sears  not  me  with  poisoned  sting. 
Because  of  all  that  I  have  done, 
Remember  me  in  life,  0  son ! 
Keep  that  proud  body  fine  and  fair, 
My  love  is  monumented  there. 
For  my  iove  make  no  woman  weep. 
For  my  lo\^e  hold  no  woman  cheap. 
And  see  you  give  no  woman  scorn 
For  that  dark  night  when  you  were  born. 
Beloved,  all  my  years  belong 
To  you,  go  thread  them  for  a  song. 

I/'ene  Mutherford  McLeod 

ONE   MOTHER 

Mary! 

I  'm  quite  alone  in  all  the  world. 
Into    such    bright    sharp    pain   of    anguish 

hurled 
I  cannot  pray  wise  comfortable  things; 
Death 's  plunged  me  deep  in  hell,  and  given 

me  wings 
For  terrible  strange  vastnesses ;  no  hand 
In  all  this  empty  spirit-driven  space ;  I  stand 
Alone,  and  whimpering  in  my  soul.  I  plod 
Among  wild  stars,  and  hide  my  face  from 

God. 

54 


Mothers  of  Men 

God    frightens  me.  He's  strange.  I    know 

Him  not. 
And  all  my  usual  prayers  I  have  forgot: 
But  you — you  had  a  son — I  remember  now! 
You  are  not  Mary  of  the  virgin  brow! 
You  agonized  for  Jesus!  You  went  down 
Into  the  ugly  depths  for  him.  Your  crown 
Is  my  crown  !  I  've  seen  you  in  the  street, 
Begging  your  way  for  broken    bread  and 

meat : 
I  've  seen  you  in  trams,  in  shops,  among  old 

faces, 
Young  eyes,  brave  lips,  broad  backs,  in  all 

the  places 
Where  women  work,  and  weep,  in  pain,  in 

pride. 
Your   hands  were   gnarled  that  held    him 

when  he  died ! 
Not  the  fair  hands  that  painters  give  you, 

white 
And  slim.  You  never  had  such  hands :  night 
And  day  you  laboured,  night  and  day,  from 

child 
To  woman.  You  were  never  soft  and  mild. 
But    strong-limbed,  patient,  brown-skinned 

from  the  sun. 
Deep-bosomed,  brave-eyed,  holy,  holy  One! 
I  know  you  now !  I  seek  you,  Mary !  SpKcad 
Your  compassionate  skirts!   I  bring  to  you 

my  dead! 


To  Mother 

This  was  my  man.  I  bore  him.  I  did  not 

know 
Then  how  he  crowned  me,  but  I  felt  it  so. 
He  was  my  all  the  world.  I  loved  him  best 
When  he  was  helpless,  clamouring  at  my 

breast. 
Mothers  are  made  like  that.  You  '11  under- 
stand 
Who  held  your  Jesus  helpless  in  your  hand 
And  loved  his  impotence.  But  as  he  grew 
I  watched  him,  always  jealously,  I  knew 
Each  line  of  his  young  body,  every  tone 
Of  speech ;  his  pains,  his  triumphs  were  my 

own. 
I  saw  the  down  come  on  his  cheeks  with 

dread. 
And  soon  I  had  to  reach  to  hold  his  head 
And  stroke  his  mop  of  hair.  I  watched  his  eyes 
Wheu  women  crossed  his  ways,  and  I  was 

wise 
For  him  who  had  no  wisdom.  He  was  young. 
And  loathed  my  care,  and  lashed  me  with 

youth's  tongue. 
Splendidly  merciless,  casual  of  age,  his  scorn 
Was  sweet  to  me  of  whom  his  strength  was 

born. 
.  .   .  Besides,  when  he  was  more  than  six 

foot  tall 
He  kept  the  smile  he   had  when  he  was 

small!  ... 

56 


Mothers  of  Men 

And  still  no  woman  bad  him.  I  was  glad 
Of  that  —  and  then  O  God !  The  world  ran 

mad! 
Almost  before  I  knew,  this  noise  was  war; 
Death  and  not  women  took  the  son  I  bore  .  .  . 

You  '11  know  him  when  you  see  him :  first  of 

all 
Because  he  '11  smile  that  way  when  he  was 

small ; 
And  then   his  eyes!  They  never  changed 

from  blue 
To  duller  grey,  as  other  children's  do, 
But  like  his  childish  dreams  he  kept  his 

eyes 
Vivid,  and  deeply  clear,  and  vision  wise. 
Seek  for   him,  Mary !    Bright  among   tho 

ghosts 
Of  other  women's  sons  he  '11  star  those  hosts 
Of  shining  Iwys!   (He  always  topped  his 

class 
At  school!)  Lean  forward,  Mary,  as  they 

pass. 
And  touch  him!  "When  you  see  his  eyes 

you  '11  weep 
And  think  him  your  own  Jesus!  Let  him 

sleep 
In  your   deep   bosom,    Mary,    then   you'll 

see 
His  lashes,  how  they  curl,  so  childishly 
n7 


To  Mother 

You  '11  weep  again,  and  rock  him  on  your 

heart 
As  I  did  once,  that  night  we  had  to  part. 
Pie  '11  come  to  you  all  bloody  and  be-mired, 
But  let  him  sleep,  my  dear,  for  he  '11  be  tired, 
And  very  shy.  If  he  'd  come  home  to  me 
I  would  n't  ask  the  neighbours  in  to  tea  .  .  . 
He  always  hated  crowds  ...  I  'd  let  him 

be.  .  .  . 

And  then   perhaps  you  '11  take  him  by  the 

hand 
And  comfort  him  from  fear  when  he  must 

stand 
Before  God's  dreadful  throne ;  then,  will  you 

call 
That  boy  whose  bullet  made  my  darling  f  aU, 
And  take  him  by  the  other  hand,  and  say  .  .  . 
"  O  God,  whose  Son  the  hands  of  men  did 

slay. 
These  are   Thy  children  who  do  take  away 

The  si?is  of  the  world.  .  .  ." 

Irene  Rutherford  McLeod 


68 


Mothers  of  Men 
AN   ENGLISH  MOTHER  i 

Every  week  of  every  season  out  of  English 

ports  go  forth, 
White  of  sail  or  white  of  trail,  East,  or  West, 

or  South,  or  North, 
Scattering  like  a  flight  of  pigeons,  half  a 

hundred  home-sick  ships. 
Bearing  half  a  hundred  striplings  —  each  with 

kisses  on  his  lips 
Of  some  silent  mother,  fearful  lest  she  shows 

herself  too  fond, 
Giving  him  to  bush  or  desert  as  one  pays  a 

sacred  bond, 
—  Tell  us,  you  who  hide  your  heartbreak, 

which  is  sadder,  when  all 's  done, 
To  repine  an  English  mother,  or  to  roam,  an 

English  son? 

You  who  shared  your  babe's  first  sorrow  when 

his  cheek  no  longer  pressed 
On  the  perfect,  snow-and-roseleaf  beauty  of 

your  mother-breast. 
In  the  rigor  of  his  nurture  was  your  woman's 

mercy  mute, 
Kno^vino:  he  was  doomed  to  exile  with  the 

savage  and  the  brute  ? 

1  By    permission   of    the   author,   Robert  Underwood 
Jolinson.    From  Sairit-Gaudens  and  other  Poems.    Copy- 
rij^ht,  lUOX,  by  Kobert  Underwood  JohuHoa. 
59 


To  Mother 

Did  you  scliool  yourself  to  absence  all  his 
adolescent  years, 

That,  though  you  be  torn  with  parting,  he 
should  never  see  the  tears? 

Now  his  ship  has  left  the  offing  for  the  many- 
mouthed  sea, 

This  your  guerdon,  empty  heart,  by  empty 
bed  to  bend  the  knee? 

And  if  he  be  but  the  latest  thus  to  leave  your 
dwindling  board. 

Is  a  sorrow  less  for  being  added  to  a  sor- 
row's hoard? 

Is  the  mother-pain  duller  that  to-day  his 
brothers  stand. 

Facing  ambuscades  of  Congo,  or  alarms  from 
Zululand  ? 

Toil,  where  blizzards  drift  the  snow  like 
smoke  across  tlie  plains  of  death? 

Faint,  where  tropic  fens  at  morning  steam 
with  fever-laden  breath? 

Die,  that  in  some  distant  river's  veins  the 
English  blood  may  run  — 

Mississippi,  Yangtze,  Ganges,  Nile,  Mac- 
kenzie, Amazon? 

Ah!  you  still  must  wait  and  suffer  in  a  soli- 
tude untold. 

While  your  sisters  of  the  nations  call  you 
passive,  caU  you  cold  — 

60 


Mothers  of  Men 

Still  must  scan  the  news  of  sailings,  breath- 
less search  the  slow  gazette, 

Find  the  dreadful  name  .  .  .  and,  later,  get 
his  blithe  farewell !  And  yet  — 

Shall  the  lonely  hearthstone  shame  the  legions 
who  have  died 

Grudging  not  the  price  their  country  pays 
for  progi-ess  and  for  pride? 

—  Nay ;  but,  England,  do  not  ask  us  thus  to 
emulate  your  scars 

Until  women's  tears  are  reckoned  in   the 
budgets  of  your  wars. 

Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

MATRES   DOLOROSA 

Ye  Spartan  mothers,  gentle  ones, 

Of  lion-hearted,  loving  sons 

Fall'n,  the  flower  of  English  youth, 

To  a  barbarous  foe  in  a  land  uncouth :  — 

O  what  a  delicate  sacrifice ! 
Unequal  the  stake  and  costly  the  price 
As  when  the  queen  of  Love  deplor'd 
Her  darling  by  the  wild  beast  gor'd. 

They  rode  to  war  as  if  to  the  hunt. 
But  ye  at  home,  ye  bore  the  brunt, 
Bore  the  siege  of  torturing  fears. 
Fed  your  hope  on  tlio  bread  of  tears. 

fil 


To  Mother 

Proud  and  spotless  warriors  they 
With  love  or  sword  to  lead  the  way; 
For  ye  had  cradled  heart  and  hand, 
The  commander  hearken'd  to  your  com- 
mand. 

Ah,  weeping  mothers,  now  all  is  o'er, 
Ye  know  your  honor  and  mourn  no  more : 
Nor  ask  ye  a  name  in  England's  story, 
Who  gave  your  dearest  for  her  glory. 

Robert  Bridges 

THE   ABSENT   SOLDIER   SON 

Lord,  I  am  weeping.  As  Thou  wilt,  O  Lord, 
Do  with  him  as  Thou  wilt ;  but  O  my  God, 
Let  him  come  back  to  die !  Let  not  the  fowls 
O'  the  air  defile  the  body  of  my  child. 
My  own  fair  child,  that  when  he  was  a  babe, 
I  lift  up  in  my  arras  and  gave  to  Thee ! 
Let  not  his  garment.  Lord,  be  vilely  parted. 
Nor  the  fine  linen  which  these  hands  have 

spun 
Fall  to  the  stranger's  lot !  Shall  the  wild  bird, 
That  would  have  pilfered  of  the  ox,  this  year 
Disdain  the  pens  and  stalls  ?  Shall  her  blind 

young 
That  on  the  fleck  and    moult    of    brutish 

beasts 
Had  been  too  happy,  sleep  in  cloth  of  gold 
62 


Mothers  of  Men 

Whereof  each  thread  is  to  this  beating  heart 
As  a  peculiar  darling?  Lo,  the  flies 
Hum  o'er  him !  lo,  a  feather  from  the  crow 
Falls  in  his  parted  lips !  Lo,  his  dead  eyes 
See  not  the  raven  !  Lo,  the  worm,  the  worm, 
Creeps  from  his  festering  corse  ?  My  God  I 
my  God ! 

O  Lord,  Thou  doest  well.  I  am  content. 
If  Thou  have  need  of  him  he  shall  not  stay. 
But  as  one  calleth  to  a  servant,  saying 
"At  such  a  time  be  with  me,"  so,  O  Lord, 
Call  him  to  Thee !  O,  bid  him  not  in  haste 
Straight  whence  he  standeth.    Let  him  lay 

aside 
The  soiled  tools  of  labor.  Let  him  wash 
His  hands  of  blood.  Let  him  array  himself 
Meet  for  his  Lord,  pure  from  the  sweat  and 

fume 
Of  corporal  travail !  Lord,  if  he  must  die, 
Let  him  die  here.  0,  take  him  where  Thou 

gavest ! 

Sidney  Dohell 

MOTHER  AND  SON 

BiiiGnTLY  for  him  the  future  smiled, 

The  world  was  all  untried  ; 
He  had  been  a  boy,  almost  a  child, 

In  your  household  till  he  died. 

63 


To  Mother 

And  you  saw  him  young  and  strong  and  fair 

But  yesterday  depart ; 
And  you  now  know  he  is  lying  there 

Shot  to  death  through  the  heart! 

Alas,  for  the  step  so  proud  and  true 
That  struck  on  the  war-path's  track ; 

Alas,  to  go,  as  he  went  from  you, 

And  to  come,  as  they  brought  him  back ! 

One  shining  curl  from  that  bright  young  head. 

Held  sacred  in  your  home, 
Is  all  that  you  have  to  keep  in  his  stead 

In  the  years  that  are  to  come. 

You  may  claim  of  his  beauty  and  his  youth 

Only  this  little  part  — 
It  is  not  much  with  which  to  stanch 

The  wound  in  a  mother's  heart  I 

It  is  not  much  with  which  to  dry 

The  bitter  tears  that  flow ; 
Not  much  in  your  empty  hands  to  He 

As  the  seasons  come  and  go. 

Yet  he  has  not  lived  and  died  in  vain, 

For  proudly  you  may  say 
He  has  left  a  name  without  a  stain 

For  your  tears  to  wash  away. 
64 


Mothers  of  Men 

And  evermore  shall  your  life  be  blest, 
Though  your  treasures  now  are  few, 
Smee  you  gave  for  your  country's  good  the 
best 
God  ever  gave  to  you ! 

Phoebe  Cary 

MOTHERHOOD 

Mother  of  Christ  long  slain,  forth  glided 
she, 
Following  the  children  joyously  astir 
Under  the  cedars  and  the  olive-tree, 

Pausing  to  let  their  laughter  float  to  her. 
Each  voice  an  echo  of  a  voice  more  dear. 

She  saw  a  little  Christ  in  every  face. 
When  lo!  another  woman,  passing  near. 
Yearned  o'er  the  tender  life  that  filled  the 
place, 
And  Mary  sought  the  woman's  hand,  and 

said: 
*'I  know  thee  not,  yet  know  thee  memory- 
tossed 
And  what  hath  led   thee   here,  as   I   am 
led  — 
These  bring  to  thee  a  child  beloved  and 
lost." 

"How  radiant  was  my  little  one! 
And  He  was  fair, 

65 


To  Mother 

Yea  fairer  than  the  fairest  sun, 

And  like  its  rays  through  amber  spun 

His  sun-bright  hair, 
Still,  I  can  see  it  shine  and  shine ! " 
"Even  so,"  the  woman  said,  "was  mine." 

**His  ways  were  ever  darling  ways," 

And  Mary  smiled,  —  ~- 

*'  So  soft  and  clinging !  Glad  relays 
Of  love  were  all  his  precious  days  — 

My  little  child 
Was  like  an  infinite  that  gleamed." 
"Even  so  was  mine,"  the  woman  dreamed. 

Then  whispered  Mary :  "  Tell  me,  thou 

Of  thine!"  And  she: 
"Oh,  mine  was  rosy  as  a  bough 
Blooming  with  roses,  sent,  somehow, 

To  bloom  for  me! 
His  balmy  fingers  left  a  thrill 
Within  my  breast  that  warms  me  still." 

Then  gazed  she  down  some  wilder,  darker 

hour 
And  said,  when  Mary  questioned  knowing 

not: 
"Who   art    thou,    mother    of    so   sweet   a 

flower?" 
"I  am  the  mother  of  Iscariot." 

Agnes  Lee 


^CHRISTMASl 
MOTHER  POEMS 


. 


HYMN  ON  THE  NATIVITY 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 
While  the  heaven-born  child 

All   meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger 
lies ; 
Nature,  in  awe  of  him. 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim. 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize  : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the   sun,  her  lusty  para- 
mour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  wooes  the  gentle  air, 

To   hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent 
snow; 
And  on  her  naked  shame, 
Pollute  with  sinful  blame. 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden-white  to  throw ; 
Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Shoidd  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deform- 
ities. 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease, 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace  : 

She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly 
sliding 

69 


To  Mother 

Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 

His  ready  harbinger, 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  di- 
viding ; 

And,  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 

She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea 
and  land. 

No  war  or  battle's  sound 
Was  heard  the  world  around : 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up- 
hung ; 
The  hooked  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood ; 

The    trumpet    spake   not   to  the   armed 
throng ; 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye. 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign  lord 
was  by. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night, 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  be- 
gan: 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist. 
Smoothly  the  waters  kissed. 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean. 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on   the 
charmed  wave. 
70 


Christmas  Mother  Poems 

Tlie  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 

Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence  ; 
And  will  not  take  their  flight, 
For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  had  often  warned  them  thence ; 
But  in  their  glinimering  orbs  did  glow. 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid 
them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new-enlightened  world  no  more  should 
need; 
He  saw  a  greater  sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axle- 
tree,  could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn. 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn. 

Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row ; 
Full  little  thought  they  then 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

"Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below  ; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy 
keep. 

71 


To  Mother 

When  such  music  sweet 

Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet, 

As  never  was  by  mortal  fingers  strook, 
Divinely  warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose, 
With   thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each 
heavenly  close. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound, 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia's  seat,  the  airy  region  thrill- 

Now  was  almost  won, 

To  think  her  part  was  done. 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  ful- 
filling ; 

She  knew  such  harmony  alone 

Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier 
union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light. 

That  with  long  beams  the  shame-faced 
night  arrayed; 
The  helmed  cherubim, 
And  sworded  seraphim. 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings 
displayed, 

72 


Christynas  Mother  Poems 

Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire, 
With  unexpressive  notes,  to  Heaven's  new- 
born heir. 

Such  music  as  't  is  said 
Before  was  never  made, 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set. 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges 
hung, 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep. 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  chan- 
nel keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres, 
Once  bless  our  human  ears. 

If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so ; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time  ; 

And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ 
blow; 
And,  with  your  ninefold  harmony. 
Make  up  full  concert  to  the  angelic  sym- 
phony. 

For,  if  such  holy  song 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long. 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of 

gold; 

73 


To  Mother 

And  speckled  Vanity 

Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly 
mould ; 

And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 

And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peer- 
ing day. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men. 

Orbed  in  a  rainbow;   and,  like  glories 
wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between, 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down 
steering ; 
And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival. 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace 
hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  no, 
This  must  not  yet  be  so ; 

The  babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy. 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss, 

So  both  himseK  and  us  to  glorify : 
Yet  first,  to  those  ychained  in  sleep. 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder 
through  the  deep, 


74 


Christmas  Mother  Poems 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 

While  the  red  fii-e  and  smouldering  clouds 
outbrake ; 
The  aged  earth  aghast, 
With  terror  of  that  blast. 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  center  shake ; 
When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The   dreadful   Judge   in   middle   air  shall 
spread  his  throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss, 
Full  and  perfect  is, 

But  now  begins ;  for,  from  this  happy  day, 
The  old  dragon,  under  ground. 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway; 
And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swings  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb ; 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words 
deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine. 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos 
leaving. 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  s])ell. 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  pro- 
phetic cell. 

75 


To  Mother 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resoundmg  shore, 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  la- 
ment ; 
From  haunted  spring  and  dale, 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn, 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled 
thickets  mourn.  , 

In  consecrated  earth. 

And  on  the  holy  hearth, 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  mourn  with  mid- 
night plaint. 

In  urns  and  altars  round, 

A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the   Flamens  at  their   service 
quaint ; 

And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 

While   each   peculiar   power    foregoes   his 
wonted  seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim 

With  that  twice-battered  God  of  Pales- 
tine; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both. 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine ; 
76 


Christmas  Mother  Poems 

The  Libyac  Hammon  shrinks  his  hoi*n ; 
lu   vain   the  Tyrian   maids  their  wounded 
Thammuz  mourn. 

And  sullen  ISIoloch,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue : 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 

In   dismal   dance   about'  the   furnace 
blue: 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 

Trampling   the   uu  showered   grass   with 
lowings  loud; 

Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 

Within  his  sacred  chest. 

Naught  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his 
shroud ; 

In  vain  with  timbreled  anthems  dark 

The   sable-stoled    sorcerers   bear    his   wor- 
shiped ark. 

He  feels  from  Judah's  land 
The  dreaded  infant's  hand. 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky 

eyne; 

77 


To  Mother 

Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide, 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine ; 
Our  babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true. 
Can   in    his    swaddling   bands  control   the 
damned  crew. 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed, 
Curtained  with  cloudy  red, 

Pillows  his  cliin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail. 

Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several 

grave ; 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 
Fly   after   the    night-steeds,    leaving   their 

raoon-loved  maze. 

But  see,  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  babe  to  rest ; 

Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here  have 
ending : 
Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 
Hath  fixed  her  polished  car. 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp 
attending ; 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  serv- 
iceable. 

John  Milton 


Christmas  Mother  Poems 
A  MOTHER   IN  EGYPT 

About  midnight  will  I  go  out  into  the  midst  of  Egypt : 
and  all  the  first-born  in  the  land  of  Egypt  shall  die, 
from  the  first-born  of  Pharaoh  that  sitteth  upon  his  throne, 
even  unto  the  first-born  of  the  maid-servant  that  is  be' 
hind  the  mill. 

Is  the  noise  of  grief  in  the  palace  over  the 

river 
For  this  silent  one  at  my  side? 
There  came  a  hush  in  the  night,  and  he  rose 

with  his  hands  a-quiver 
Like  lotus  petals  adrift  on  the  swdng  of  the 

tide. 
O  small  cold  hands,  the  day  groweth  old  for 

sleeping! 
O  small  still  feet,  rise  up,  for  the  hour  is 

late! 
Rise  up,  my  son,  for  I  hear  them  mourning 

and  weeping 
In  the  temple  down  by  the  gate! 

Hushed  is  the  face  that  was  wont  to  brighten 
with  laughter 

When  I  sang  at  the  mill ; 

And  silence  unbroken  shall  greet  the  sor- 
rowful dawns  hereafter,  — 

The  house  shall  be  still. 

Voice  after  voice  takes  up  the  burden  of 
wailing  — 

19 


To  Mother 

Do  you  not  heed, do  you  not  hear? —  m  the 
high  priest's  house  by  the  wall. 

But  mine  is  the  grief,  and  their  sorrow  is  all 
un  vailing. 

Will  he  awake  at  their  call? 


Something  I  saw  of  the  broad  dim  wings 
half  folding 

The  passionless  brow. 

Something  I  saw  of  the  sword  that  the  shad- 
owy hands  were  holding,  — 

What  matters  it  now? 

I  held  you  close,  dear  face,  as  I  knelt  and 
barkened 

To  the  wind  that  cried  last  night  like  a  soul 
in  sin, 

When  the  broad  bright  stars  dropped  down 
and  the  soft  sky  darkened 

And  the  presence  moved  therein. 

I  have  heard  men  speak  in  the  market-place 

of  the  city, 
Low-voiced,  in  a  breath. 
Of  a  God  who  is  stronger  than  ours,  and 

who  knows  not  changing  nor  pity, 
Whose  anger  is  death. 
Nothing  I  know  of  the  lords  of  the  outland 

races. 


80 


Christmas  Mother  Poems 

But  Araud  is  gentle  and  Hathor  the  mother 

is  mild, 
And  who  would  descend  from  the  light  of 

the  Peaceful  Places 
To  war  on  a  child  ? 


Yet  here  he  lies,  with  a  scarlet  pomegranate 

petal 
Blown  down  on  his  cheek. 
The  slow  sun  sinks  to  the  sand  like  a  shield 

of  some  burnished  metal, 
But  he  does  not  speak. 
I  have  called,  I  have  sung,  but  he  neither 

will  liear  nor  waken ; 
So  lightly,  so  whitely,  he  lies  in  the  curve 

of  my  arm, 
Like  a  feather  let  fall  from  the  bird  the 

arrow  hath  taken,  — 
Who  could  see  him,  and  harm  ? 

"The  swallow  flies  home  to  her  sleep  in  the 

eaves  of  the  altar. 
And  the  crane  to  her  nest."  — 
So  do  we  sing  o'er  the  mill,  and  why,  ah, 

why  should  1  falter. 
Since  he  goes  to  his  rest  ? 
Does  he  play  in  their  flowers  as  he  played 

among  these  with  his  mother? 


81 


To  Mother 

Do  the  gods  smile  downward  and  love  Mm 

and  give  him  their  care? 
Guard  him  well,  O  ye  gods,  till  I  come ;  lest 

the  wrath  of  that  Other 
Should  reach  to  him  there. 

Marjorie  L.  C  Pickthall 


CHRISTMAS   CAROL 

As  Joseph  was  a-waukin'. 
He  heard  an  angel  sing, 
«  This  night  shall  be  the  birthnight 
Of  Christ  our  heavenly  King. 


"  His  birth-bed  shall  be  neither 
In  housen  nor  in  hall. 
Nor  in  the  place  of  paradise, 
But  in  the  oxen's  stall. 

"  He  neither  shall  be  rocked 
In  silver  nor  in  gold, 
But  in  the  wooden  manger 
That  lieth  in  the  mould. 

"  He  neither  shall  be  washen 

With  white  wine  nor  with  red, 
But  with  the  fair  spring  water 
That  on  you  shall  be  shed. 

82 


Christmas  Mother  Poems 

"  He  neither  shall  be  clothed 
In  purple  nor  in  pall, 
But  in  the  fair,  white  linen 
That  usen  babies  all." 


As  Joseph  was  a-waukin', 

Thus  did  the  angel  sing, 
And  Mary's  son  at  midnight 

Was  born  to  be  our  King. 

Then  be  you  glad,  good  people, 

At  this  time  of  the  year; 
And  light  you  up  your  candles, 

For  His  star  it  shineth  clear. 

Unk7iown 


REGINA  CCELI 

Say,  did  his  sisters  wonder  what  could 

Joseph  see 
In  a  mild,  silent  little  Maid  like  thee? 
And  was  it  awful  in  that  narrow  house, 
With  God  for  Babe  and  Spouse? 
Nay,  like  thy  simple,  female  sort,  each 

one 
Apt  to  find  Him  in  Husband  and  in 

Son, 
Nothing  to  thee  came  strange  in  this. 
Thy  wonder  was  but  wondrous  bliss : 
83 


To  Mother 

Wondrous,  for,  though 

True  Virgm  lives  not  but  does  know, 

(Howbeit  none  ever  yet  confess'd) 

That  God  lies  really  in  her  breast, 

Of  thine  He  made  His  special  nest 

And  so 

All  mothers  worship  little  feet. 

And  kiss  the  very  ground  they  've  trod ; 

But,  ah,  thy  little  Baby  sweet 

Who  was  indeed  thy  God  ! 

Coventry  Patmore 


CHRIST  THE  MENDICANT 

A  Stranger,  to  His  own 
He  came ;  and  one  alone. 
Who  knew  not  sin, 
His  lowliness  believed. 
And  in  her  soul  conceived 
To  let  Him  in. 

He  naked  was,  and  she 

Of  her  humanity 

A  garment  wove : 

He  hungered ;  and  she  gave. 

What  most  His  heart  did  crave, 

A  Mother's  love. 

John  Banister  Tahh 


84 


Christmas  Mother  Poems 

A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL 

There  's  a  song  in  the  air ! 

There  's  a  star  in  the  sky ! 

There  's  a  mother's  deep  prayer 

And  a  baby's  low  cry ! 
And  the  star  rains  its  fire  while  the  Beauti- 
ful sing, 
For  the  manger  of  Bethlehem  cradles  a  king. 

There 's  a  tumult  of  joy 

O'er  the  wonderful  birth, 

For  the  virgin's  sweet  boy 

Is  the  Lord  of  the  earth. 
Ay !  the  star  rains  its  fire  and  the  Beautiful 

sing, 
For  the  manger  of  BetlUehem  cradles  a  king. 

In  the  light  of  that  star 

Lie  the  ages  impearled  ; 

And  that  song  from  afar 

Has  swept  over  the  world. 
Every  hearth  is  aflame,  and  the  Beautiful  sing 
In  the  homes  of  the  nations  that  Jesus  is 
King. 

We  rejoice  in  the  light. 

And  we  echo  the  song 

That  comes  down  through  the  night 

From  the  heavenly  throng. 

85 


To  Mother 

Ay!  we  shout  to  the  lovely  evangel  they  bring, 

And  we  greet  in  his  cradle  our  Saviour  and 

King, 

Josiah  Gilbert  Holland 


A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  HYMN 

Thou  that  once,  on  mother's  knee, 
Wast  a  little  one  like  me, 
When  I  wake  or  go  to  bed 
Lay  thy  hands  about  my  head ; 
Let  me  feel  thee  very  near, 
Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour  dear. 

Be  beside  me  in  the  light, 
Close  by  me  through  all  the  night ; 
Make  me  gentle,  kind,  and  true, 
Do  what  mother  bids  me  do ; 
Help  and  cheer  me  when  I  fret, 
And  forgive  when  I  forget. 

Once  wast  thou  in  cradle  laid. 
Baby  bright  in  manger-shade, 
With  the  oxen  and  the  cows, 
And  the  lambs  outside  the  house : 
Now  thou  art  above  the  sky : 
Canst  thou  hear  a  baby  cry  ? 

Thou  art  nearer  when  we  pray, 
Since  thou  art  so  far  away ; 

86 


Christmas  Mother  Poems 

Thou  ray  little  hymn  wilt  hear, 
Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour  dear, 
Thou  that  once,  on  mother's  knee, 
Wast  a  little  one  like  me. 

Francis  Turner  Palgrave 

A   CAKOL 

He  came  all  so  still 

Where  His  mother  was, 
As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  grass. 

He  came  all  so  still 

Where  His  mother  lay, 
As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  spray. 

He  came  all  so  still 

To  His  mother's  bower, 
As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  flower. 

Mother  and  maiden 

Was  never  none  but  she ! 

Well  might  such  a  lady 
God's  mother  be. 

Unknown. 


LULKABIES 


SEA  SLUMBER-SONG 

Sea-birds  are  asleep, 
The  world  forgets  to  weep, 
Sea  murmurs  her  soft  slumber-song 
On  the  shadowy  sand 
Of  this  elfin  land ; 
"  I,  the  Mother  mild, 
Hush  thee,  O  my  child. 
Forget  the  voices  wild  1 
Isles  in  elfin  light 
Dream,  the  rocks  and  caves, 
Lull'd  by  whispering  waves, 
Veil  their  marbles  bright, 
Foam  glimmers  faintly  white 
Upon  the  shelly  sand 
Of  this  elfin  land ; 
Sea-sound,  like  violins. 
To  slumber  woos  and  wins, 
I  murmur  my  soft  slumber-song. 
Leave  woes,  and  wails,  and  sins. 
Ocean's  shadowy  night 
Breathes  good-night, 
Good-night !  " 

Roden  Noel 


01 


To  Mother 

SWEET   AND   LOW 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 
Wind  of  the  western  sea ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon  and  blow, 
Blow  him  again  to  me ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Eest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon ; 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
sleep. 

Alfred  Tennyson 

A  CRADLE   HYMN 

Hush  !  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber, 
Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed ! 

Heavenly  blessings  without  number 
Gently  falling  on  thy  head. 
92 


Lullabies 

Sleep,  my  babe ;  thy  food  and  raiment, 
House  and  home,  thy  friends  provide ; 

All  without  thy  care  or  pajanent : 
All  thy  wants  are  well  supplied. 

How  much  better  thou  *rt  attended 
Than  the  Son  of  God  could  be, 

When  from  heaven  He  descended 
And  became  a  child  like  thee ! 

Soft  and  easy  is  thy  cradle : 

Coarse  and  hard  thy  Saviour  lay, 

When  His  birthplace  was  a  stable 
And  His  softest  bed  was  hay. 

Blessed  babe  !  what  glorious  features  — 
Spotless  fair,  divinely  bright ! 

Must  he  dwell  with  brutal  creatures  ? 
How  could  angels  bear  the  sight? 

Was  there  nothing  but  a  manger 

Cursed  sinners  could  afford 
To  receive  the  heavenly  stranger? 

Did  they  thus  affront  their  Lord? 

Soft,  my  child :  I  did  not  chide  thee, 

Though  my  song  might  sound  too  hard ; 

'T  is  thy  mother  sits  beside  thee, 
And  her  arms  shall  be  thy  guard. 
93 


To  Mother 

Yet  to  read  the  shameful  story 
How  the  Jews  abused  their  King, 

How  they  served  the  Lord  of  Glory, 
Makes  me  angry  while  I  sing. 

See  the  kinder  shepherds  round  Him, 
Telling  wonders  from  the  sky! 

Where  they  sought  Him,  there  they  found 
Him, 
With  His  Virgin  mother  by. 

See  the  lovely  babe  a-dressing ; 

Lovely  infant,  how  He  smiled! 
When  He  wept,  the  mother's  blessing 

Soothed  and  hushed  the  holy  child. 

Lo,  He  slumbers  in  His  manger, 

Where  the  horned  oxen  fed ; 
Peace,  my  darling ;  here  's  no  danger, 

Here 's  no  ox  anear  thy  bed. 

'T  was  to  save  thee,  child,  from  dying, 
Save  my  dear  from  burning  flame, 

Bitter  groans  and  endless  crying, 
That  thy  blest  Redeemer  came. 

May'st  thou  live  to  know  and  fear  Him, 
Trust  and  love  Him  all  thy  days; 

Then  go  dwell  forever  near  Him, 
See  His  face,  and  sing  His  praise. 

Isaac  Watts 

94 


Lullabies 

CRADLE   SONG 

Ere  the  moon  begins  to  rise 

Or  a  star  to  shine, 
All  the  blue  bells  close  their  eyes  — 

So  close  thine, 

Thine,  dear,  thine ! 

Birds  are  sleeping  in  the  nest 

On  the  swaying  bough, 
Thus,  against  the  mother-breast  — 
So  sleep  thou, 

Sleep,  sleep,  thou ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 


SLEEP,   BABY,  SLEEP 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 
Thy  father  watches  the  sheep  ; 
Thy  mother  is  shaking  the  dream-land  tree, 
And  down  falls  a  little  dream  on  thee : 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 
The  large  stars  are  the  sheep, 
The  little  stars  are  the  lambs  I  guess, 
The  fair  moon  is  the  shepherdess : 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

Anonymous 
95 


To  Mother 

JAPANESE   LULLABY 

Sleep,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings,  — 
Little  blue  pigeon  with  velvet  eyes ; 

Sleep  to  the  singing  of  mother-bird  swing- 
ing- 
Swinging  the  nest  where  her  little  one  lies. 

Away  out  yonder  I  see  a  star,  — 
Silvery  star  with  a  tinkling  song ; 

To  the  soft  dew  falling  I  hear  it  calling — 
Calling  and  tinkling  the  night  along. 

In   through   the   window   a  moonbeam 
comes,  — 
Little  gold  moonbeam  with  misty  wings ; 
All  silently  creeping,  it  asks :  "Is  he  sleep- 
ing- 
Sleeping    and    dreaming   while    mother 
sings  ?  " 

tip  from  the  sea  there  floats  the  sob 

Of  the  waves  that  are  breaking  upon  the 
shore, 
As  though  they  were  groaning  in  anguish, 
and  moaning  — 
Bemoaning  the  ship  that  shall  come  no 
more. 


06 


Lullabies 

But    sleep,    little    pigeon,    and    fold    your 
wings,  — 
Little  blue  pigeon  with  mournful  eyes; 
Am    I   not    singing  ?  —  see,    I    am    swing- 
ing- 
Swinging   the   nest    where    my    darling 
lies. 

Eugene  Field 

THE  COTTAGER'S   LULLABY 

The  days  are  cold,  the  nights  are  long ; 
The  north-wind  sings  a  doleful  song ; 
Then  hush  again  upon  my  breast. 
All  merry  things  are  now  at  rest, 
Save  thee,  my  pretty  love! 

The  kitten  sleeps  upon  the  hearth, 
The  crickets  long  have  ceased  their  mirth ; 
There  's  nothing  stirring  in  the  house 
Save  one  wee,  hungry,  nibbling  meuse ; 
Then  why  so  busy  thou  ? 

Nay,  start  not  at  that  sparkling  light ; 
'T  is  but  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright 
On  the  window-pane  bedropped  with  rain ; 
Then,  little  darling !  sleep  again, 
And  wake  when  it  is  day. 

Dorothy  Wordsworth 
97 


To  Mother 

SWEDISH   MOTHER'S  LULLABY 

There  sitteth  a  dove,  so  fair  and  white, 

All  on  a  lily  spray ; 
And  she  listeneth  how  to  the  Saviour  above 

The  little  children  pray. 

Lightly  she  spreads  her  friendly  wings, 
And  to  heaven's  gate  hath  sped, 

And  unto  the  Father  in  heaven  she  bears 
The  prayers  the  children  have  said. 

And  back  she  comes  from  heaven's  gate, 
And  brings — that  dove  so  mild  — 
From  the  Father  in  heaven,  who  hears  her 
speak, 
A  blessing  for  every  child. 

Frederika  Bremer 

THE   ROAD   TO   SLUMBER-LAND 

What  is  the  road  to  slumber-land  and  when 

does  the  baby  go  ? 
The  road  lies  straight  through  mother's  arms 

when  the  sun  is  sinking  low. 

He  goes  by  the  drowsy  land  of  nod  to  the 

music  of  lullaby. 
When  all  wee  lambs  are  safe  in  the  fold, 

under  the  evening  sky. 


Lullabies 

A  soft  little  nightgown  dean  and  white;  a 
face  washed  sweet  and  fair  ; 

A  mother  brushing  the  tangles  out  of  the 
silken,  golden  hair. 

Two  little  tired,  satiny  feet,  from  shoe  and 

stocking  free ; 
Two  little  palms  together   clasped  at  the 

mother's  patient  knee. 

Some  baby  words  that  are  drowsily  lisped  to 
the  tender  Shepherd's  ear ; 

And  a  kiss  that  only  a  mother  can  place  on 
the  brow  of  her  baby  dear. 

A  little  round  head  that  nestles  at  last  close 

to  the  mother's  breast, 
And  then  the  lullaby  soft  and  low,  singing 

the  song  of  rest. 

And  closer  and  closer  the  blue-veined  lids 

are  hiding  the  baby  eyes. 
As  over  the  road  to  slumber-land  the  dear 

little  traveler  hies. 

For  this  is  the  way,  through  mother's  arms, 

all  little  babies  go 
To  the  beautiful  city  of  slumber-land  when 

the  sun  is  sinking  low. 

Mary  Dow  Brine 


To  Mother 

WYNKEN,  BLYNKEN,  AND  NOD 

Wtnken,  Blynkeu,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe,  — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  crystal  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you 
wish?" 
The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"  We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring  fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea ; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we ! " 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song, 

As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe ; 
And   the  wind   that  sped  them  all   night 
long 
Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew. 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring  fish 
That  lived  in  that  beautiful  sea  — 
"  Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish,  — 
Never  afeard  are  we !  " 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three, 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

100 


Lullabies 

All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam,  — 
Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden 
shoe, 
Bringing  the  fishermen  home  : 
'Twas  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be ; 
And  some  folk  thought 't  was  a  dream  they  'd 
dreamed 
Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea ; 
But   I   shall    name    you    the   fishermen 
three  : 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed ; 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  Mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  in  the  misty  sea 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen 
three :  — 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Eugene  Field 
101 


To  Mother 

AULD   DADDY   DARKNESS 

AuLD  Daddy  Darkness  creeps  f  rae  his  hole, 
Black  as  a  blackamoor,  bliu'  as  a  mole ; 
Stir  the  fire  till  it  lowes,  let  the  bairnie 

sit, 
Auld  Daddy  Darkness  is  no  want  it  yit. 

See  him  in  the  corners  hidin'  frae  the  licht. 
See   him   at   the  window  gloomin'  at   the 

nicht ; 
Turn  up  the  gas  licht,  close  the  shutters  a', 
An'  Auld   Daddy  Darkness  will   flee   far 

awa'. 

Awa'  to  hide  the  birdie  within  its  cosy  nest, 
Awa'  to  lap  the  wee  flooers  on  their  mither's 

breast, 
Awa'  to  loosen  Gaffer  Toil  frae  his  daily  ca', 
For  Auld  Daddy  Darkness  is  kindly  to  a'. 

He  comes  when  we  're  weary  to  wean's  frae 

oor  waes. 
He  comes  when  the  bairnies  are  getting  off 

their  claes ; 
To  cover  them  sae  cosy,  an'  bring  bonnie 

dreams, 
So  Auld  Daddy  Darkness  is  better  than  he 

seems. 

102 


Lullabies 

Steek  yer  een,  my  wee  tot,  ye  '11  see  Daddy 

then ; 
He  's  in  below  the  bed  claes,  to  cuddle  ye 

he  's  fain ; 
Noo  nestle  to  his  bosie,  sleep  and  di'eam  yer 

mi, 

Till  Wee  Davie  Daylicht  comes  keekin'  owre 
the  hill. 

James  Ferguson 

MOTHER-SONG 

(From  "  Prince  Lucifer") 

White  little  hands ! 

Pink  little  feet ! 
Dimpled  all  over, 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 
What  dost  thou  wail  for? 

The  unknown?  the  unseen? 
The  ills  that  are  coming. 

The  joys  that  have  been  ? 

Cling  to  me  closer, 

Closer  and  closer, 
Till  the  pain  that  is  purer 

Hath  banished  the  grosser. 
Drain,  drain  at  the  stream,  love, 

Thy  hunger  is  freeing, 
That  was  born  in  a  dream,  love, 

Along  with  thy  being! 
103 


To  Mother 

Little  fingers  that  feel 

For  their  home  on  my  breast, 
Little  lips  that  appeal 

For  their  nurture,  their  rest ! 
Why,  why  dost  thou  weep,  dear? 

Nay,  stifle  thy  cries. 
Till  the  dew  of  thy  sleep,  dear. 

Lies  soft  on  thine  eyes. 

Alfred  Austin 

SEPHESTIA'S  LULLABY 

(From  "  Menaphon  ") 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee ; 

When  thou  art  old  there  's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 
Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy ; 
When  thy  father  first  did  see 
Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me, 
He  was  glad,  I  was  woe ; 
Fortune  changed  made  him  so, 
When  he  left  his  pretty  boy. 
Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee  ; 

When  thou  art  old  there 's  grief  enough  for 

thee. 

Streaming  tears  that  never  stint. 

Like  pearl-drops  from  a  flint, 

104 


Lullabies 

Fell  by  course  from  bis  eyes, 
Tbat  one  anotber's  place  supplies ; 
Tbus  be  grieved  in  every  part, 
Tears  of  blood  fell  from  bis  heart, 
Wben  be  left  bis  pretty  boy. 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 

Weep   not,   my   wanton,    smile    upon   my 
knee ; 

When  thou  art  old  there 's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 
The  wanton  smiled,  father  wept, 
Mother  cried,  baby  leapt; 
More  he  crowed,  more  we  cried, 
Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide : 
He  must  go,  he  must  kiss 
Child  and  mother,  baby  bliss, 
For  he  left  his  pretty  boy. 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 

"NVeep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 

"When  thou  art  old  there  's  grief  enough  for 

thee. 

Robert  Greene 

CRADLE  SONG 

Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright. 
Dreaming  in  the  joys  of  night ; 
Sleep,  sleep  ;  in  thy  sleep 
Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

105 


To  Mother 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Soft  desires  I  can  trace, 
Secret  joys  and  secret  smiles, 
Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel 
Smiles  as  of  the  morning  steal 
O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast 
Where  thy  little  heart  doth  rest. 

O  the  cunning  wiles  that  creep 
In  thy  little  heart  asleep! 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  wake, 
Then  the  dreadful  night  shall  break. 
William  Blake 

LULLABY  OF  AN  INFANT  CHIEF 

O,  HUSH  thee,  my  babie,  thy  sire   was  a 

knight. 
Thy  mother  a  lady,  both  lovely  and  bright ; 
The  woods  and  the  glens,  from  the  towers 

which  we  see. 
They  are  all  belonging,  dear  babie,  to  thee. 
O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo. 

O,   fear   not  the  bugle,  though   loudly  it 
blows, 

It  calls  but  the  warders  that  guard  thy  re- 
pose; 

106 


Lullabies 

Their  bows  would  be  bended,  their  blades 

would  be  red, 
Ere  the  step  of  a  foeman  draws  near  to  thy 

bed. 
O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo. 

O,  hush  thee,  my  babie,  the  time  soon  will 

come, 
When  thy  sleep  shall  be  broken  by  trumpet 

and  drum ; 
Then  hush  thee,  my  darling,  take  rest  while 

you  may. 
For  strife  comes  with  manhood,  and  waking 

with  day. 
O  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo. 

Walter  Scott 


JOYo/'MOTHERHCDD 


THE  FIRSTBORN 

So  fair,  so  dear,  so  warm  upon  my  bosom, 
And  in  ray  hands  the  little  rosy  feet. 
Sleep  on,  my  little  bird,  my  lamb,  my  blos- 
som ; 
Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  my  sweet. 

AVhat  is  it  God  hath  given  me  to  cherish. 
This  living,  moving  wonder  which  is  mine  — 
Mine  only  ?  Leave  it  with  me  or  I  perish. 
Dear  Lord  of  love  divine. 

Dear  Lord,  't  is  wonderful  beyond  all  won- 
der. 
This  tender  miracle  vouchsafed  to  me. 
One  with  myself,  yet  just  as  far  asunder 
That  I  myself  may  see. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh,  and  yet  so  subtly  link- 
ing 

New  selfs  with  old,  all  things  that  I  have 
been 

With  present  joys  beyond  my  former  think- 
ing 
And  future  things  unseen. 


Ill 


To  Mother 

There  life  began,   and  here  it  links  with 

heaven, 
The  golden    chain  of  years  scarce  dipped 

adown 
From  birth,  ere  once  again  a  hold  is  given 
And  nearer  to  God's  Throne. 

Seen,  held  in  arms  and  clasped  around  so 

tightly,  — 
My  love,  my  bird,  I  will  not  let  thee  go. 
Yet  soon  the  little  rosy  feet  must  lightly 
Go  pattering  to  and  fro. 

Mine,  Lord,  all  mine  Thy  gift  and  loving 

token. 
Mine  —  yes  or  no,  unseen  its  soul  divine? 
Mine  by  the  chain  of  love  with  links  un- 
broken, 
Dear  Saviour,  Thine  and  mine. 

John  Arthur  Goodchild 


BABY-LAND 

How  many  miles  to  Baby-Land  ?  " 
"  Any  one  can  tell ; 
Up  one  flight, 
To  the  right ; 
Please  to  ring  the  bell." 

112 


The  Joy  of  Motherhood 

"  What  can  you  see  in  Baby-Land  ?  " 
"  Little  folks  in  white  — 
Downy  heads, 
Cradle-beds, 
Faces  pure  and  bright !  " 

«  What  do  they  do  in  Baby-Land  ?  " 
"  Dream  and  wake  and  play, 
Laugh  and  crow, 
Shout  and  grow ; 
Jolly  times  have  they ! " 

"  What  do  they  say  in  Baby-Land  ?  " 
"  Why,  the  oddest  things ; 
Might  as  well 
Try  to  tell 
What  a  birdie  sings !  " 

«  Who  is  the  Queen  of  Baby-Land  ?  " 
"  Mother,  kind  and  sweet; 
And  her  love, 
Born  above, 
Guides  the  little  feet." 

George  Cooper 

MOTHER'S   SONG 

My  heart  is  like  a  fountain  true 
That  flows  and  flows  with  love  to  you. 
As  chirps  the  lark  unto  the  tree 
So  chirps  my  pretty  babe  to  me. 
And  it's  O !  sweet,  sweet!  and  a  lullaby. 

113 


To  Mother 

There 's  not  a  rose  where'er  I  seek, 

As  comely  as  my  baby's  cheek. 

There 's  not  a  comb  of  honey-bee, 

So  full  of  sweets  as  babe  to  me. 

And  it 's  0  !  sweet,  sweet !  and  a  lullaby. 

There's  not  a  star  that  shines  on  high, 
Is  brighter  than  my  baby's  eye. 
There 's  not  a  boat  upon  the  sea. 
Can  dance  as  baby  does  to  me. 
And  it 's  O  !  sweet,  sweet !  and  a  lullaby. 

No  silk  was  ever  spun  so  fine 

As  is  the  hair  of  baby  mine. 

My  baby  smells  more  sweet  to  me 

Than  smells  in  spring  the  elder  tree. 

And  it 's  O  !  sweet,  sweet !  and  a  lullaby. 

A  little  fish  swims  in  the  well, 

So  in  my  heart  does  baby  dwell. 

A  little  flower  blows  on  the  tree. 

My  baby  is  the  flower  to  me. 

And  it 's  O !  sweet,  sweet !  and  a  lullaby. 

The  Queen  has  sceptre,  crown  and  ball, 
You  are  my  sceptre,  crown  and  all. 
For  all  her  robes  of  royal  silk, 
More  fair  your  skin,  as  white  as  milk. 
And  it 's  O !  sweet,  sweet !  and  a  lullaby. 
114 


The  Joy  of  Motherhood 

Ten  thousand  parks  where  deer  do  run, 
Ten  thousand  roses  in  the  sun, 
Ten  thousand  pearls  beneath  the  sea, 
My  babe  more  precious  is  to  me. 
And  it 's  O !  sweet,  sweet !  and  a  lullaby. 

Unhnoion 

CRADLE   SONG 

Sleep,  little  baby  of  mine, 
Night  and  the  darkness  are  near. 
But  Jesus  looks  down 
Through  the  shadows  that  frown. 
And  baby  has  nothing  to  fear. 

Shut,  little  sleepy  blue  eyes ; 
Dear  little  head,  be  at  rest ; 
Jesus,  like  you, 
Was  a  baby  once,  too. 
And  slept  on  His  own  mother's 
breast. 

Sleep,  little  baby  of  mine. 
Soft  on  your  pillow  so  white ; 
Jesus  is  here 
To  watch  over  you,  dear. 
And  nothing  can  harm  you  to- 
niirht. 


115 


To  Mother 

O,  little  darling  of  mine, 

What  can  you  know  of  the  bliss, 

The  comfort  I  keep, 

Awake  and  asleep, 

Because  I  am  certain  of  this? 

Unknown 


CRADLE   SONG 

(From  "  Bitter-Sweet ") 

What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about  ? 
Very  wonderful  things,  no  doubt ! 
Unwritten  history ! 
Unf athomed  mystery ! 
Yet  he  laughs  and  cries,  and  eats  and  drinks. 
And    chuckles    and   crows,  and    nods  and 

winks. 
As  if  his  head  were  as  full  of  kinks 
And  curious  riddles  as  any  sphinx ! 
Warped  by  colic,  and  wet  by  tears, 
Punctured  by  pins,  and  tortured  by  fears, 
Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years ; 
And  he  '11  never  know 
Where  the  summers  go ;  — 
He  need  not  laugh,  for  he  '11  find  it  so  ! 

Who  can  tell  what  a  baby  thinks  ? 
Who  can  follow  the  gossamer  links 
By  which  the  mannikin  feels  his  way 
116 


Tlie  Joy  of  Motherhood 

Out  from  the  shore  of  the  great  unknown, 
Blind,  and  wailing,  and  alone, 

Into  the  light  of  day  ?  — 
Out  from  the  shore  of  the  unknown  sea, 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony ;  — 
Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and  rolls. 
Specked  with  the  barks  of  little  souls,  — 
Barks  that  were  launched  on  the  other  side. 
And  slipped  from   Heaven  on  an    ebbing 
tide! 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  eyes  ? 
What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  hair  ? 

What  of  the  cradle-roof  that  flies 
Forward  and  backward  through  the  air? 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  breast, 
Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white. 
Seeking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight,  — 

Cup  of  his  life,  and  couch  of  his  rest? 
What  does  he  think  when  her  quick  embrace 
Presses  his  hand  and  buries  his  face 
Deep  where  the  heart-throbs  sink  and  swell 
With  a  tenderness  she  can  never  tell. 

Though  she  murmur  the  words 

Of  all  the  birds,  — 
Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur  well  ? 

Now  he  thinks  he  '11  go  to  sleep ! 

I  can  see  the  shadow  creep 

Over  his  eyes,  in  soft  eclipse, 

Over  his  brow,  and  over  his  li}is, 

Out  to  his  little  finger-tips  ! 
117 


To  Mother 

Softly  sinking,  down  he  goes ! 
Down  he  goes !  down  he  goes ! 
See !  he  is  hushed  in  sweet  rejjose ! 

JosiaJi  Gilbert  Holland 

A   SONG   OF  TWILIGHT 

Oh,  to  come  home  once  more,  when  the  dnsk 
is  falling, 
To  see  the  nursery  lighted  and  the  chil- 
dren's table  spread ; 
"  Mother,  mother,  mother !  "  the  eager  voices 
calling, 
"  The  baby  was  so  sleepy  that  he  had  to  go 
to  bed!" 

Oh,  to  come  home  once  more,  and  see  the 
smiling  faces. 
Dark  head,  bright  head,  clustered  at  the 
pane ; 
Much  the  years  have  taken,  when  the  heart 
its  path  retraces. 
But  until  time  is  not  for  me,  the  image 
will  remain. 

Men    and  women    now  they  are,  standing 
straight  and  steady. 
Grave  heart,  gay  heart,  fit  for  life's  em- 
prise ; 

118 


Tlie  Joy  of  Motherhood 

Shoulder  set  to  shoulder,  how  should  they  be 
but  ready ! 
The  future  shines  before  them  with  the 
light  of  their  own  eyes. 

Still  each  answers  to  my  call ;  no  good  has 
been  denied  me. 
My  burdens  have  been  fitted  to  the  little 
strength  that 's  mine, 
Beauty,  pride  and  peace  have  walked  by  day 
beside  me, 
The  evening  closes  gently  in,  and   how 
can  I  repine? 

But  oh,  to  see  once  more,  when  the  early  dusk 
is  falling ; 
The   nursery  windows   glowing   and  the 
children's  table  spread; 
"  Mother,  mother,  mother  !  "  the  high  child- 
voices  calling, 
"  He  could  n't  stay  awake  for  you,  he  had 
to  go  to  bed  !  " 

Unknoion 

TUCKING  THE  BABY   IN 

The  dark-fringed  eyelids  slowly  close 
On  eyes  serene  and  deep  ; 

Upon  my  breast  my  own  sweet  child    . 
lias  gently  dropped  to  sleep ; 

ll'J 


To  Mother 

I  kiss  his  soft  and  dimpled  cheek, 

I  kiss  his  rounded  chin, 
Then  lay  him  on  his  little  bed, 

And  tuck  my  baby  in. 

How  fair  and  innocent  he  lies ; 

Like  some  small  angel  strayed, 
His  face  still  warmed  by  God's  own  smile. 

That  slumbers  unafraid ; 
Or  like  some  new  embodied  soul. 

Still  pure  from  taint  of  sin  — 
My  thoughts  are  reverent  as  I  stoop 

To  tuck  my  baby  in. 

What  toil  must  stain  these  tiny  hands 

That  now  lie  still  and  white? 
What  shadows  creep  across  the  face 

That  shines  with  morning  light? 
These  wee  pink  shoeless  feet  —  how  far 

Shall  go  their  lengthening  tread. 
When  they  no  longer  cuddled  close 

May  rest  upon  this  bed? 

0  what  am  I  that  I  should  train 

An  angel  for  the  skies  ; 
Or  mix  the  potent  draught  that  feeds 
The  soul  within  these  eyes? 

1  reach  him  up  to  the  sinless  Hands 

Before  his  cares  begin,  — 

Great  Father,  with  Thy  folds  of  love, 

O  tuck  my  baby  in. 

Curtis  May 
120 


The  Joy  of  Motherhood 


MOTHER  AND   CHILD 

The  wind   blew   wide   the   casement,  and 

within  — 
It  was  the  loveliest  picture  !  —  a  sweet  child 
Lay  in  its  mothei's  arms,  and  drew  its  life, 
In  pauses,  from  the  fountain,  —  the  white 

round 
Part  shaded  by  loose  tresses,  soft  and  dark, 
Concealing,  but  still  showing,  the  fair  realm 
Of  so  much  rapture,  as  green   shadowing 

trees 
With  beauty  shroud  the  brooklet.  The  red 

lips 
Were  parted,  and  the  cheek  upon  the  breast 
Lay  close,  and,  like  the  young  leaf  of  the 

flower, 
Wore  the  same  color,  rich  and  warm  and 

fresh :  — 
And  such  alone  are  beautiful.  Its  eye, 
A  full  blue  gem,  most  exquisitely  set, 
Looked    archly    on    its   world,  —  the   little 

imp. 
As  if  it  knew  even  then  that  such  a  wreath 
Were  not  for  all ;  and  with  its  ])layful  hands 
It  drew  aside  the  robe  that  hid  its  realm, 
And  peeped  and  laughed  aloud,  and  so  it 

laid 
Its  head  on  the  shrine  of  such  pure  joj^s, 
121 


To  Mother 

And,  laughing,  slept.  And  while  it  slept,  the 

tears 
Of  the  sweet  mother  fell  upon  its  cheek,  — 
Tears  such  as  fall  from  April  skies,  and 

bring 
The  sunlight  after.  They  were  tears  of  joy ; 
And  the  true  heart  of  that  young  mother 

then 
Grew  lighter,  and  she  sang  unconsciously 
The  silliest  ballad-song  that  ever  yet 
Subdued  the  nursery's  voices,  and  brought 

sleep 
To  fold  her  sabbath  wing-s  above  its  couch. 
William  Gilmore  Simms 


MATERNITY 

Within  the  crib  that  stands  beside  my  bed 
A  little  form  in  sweet  abandon  lies 
And  as  I  bend  above  with  misty  eyes 

I  know  how  Mary's  heart  was  comforted. 

O  world  of  Mothers  !  blest  are  we  who  know 
The    ecstasy  —  the    deep    God-given 

thrill 
That  Mary  felt  when  all  the  earth  was 
still 
In  the  Judean  starlisrht  Ions:  ajro ! 

Anne  P.  L.  Field 

122 


The  Joy  of  Motlierhood 

THE  LITTLE   BLACK  BOY 

My  mother  bore  me  in  tlie  southern  wild, 
And  I  am  black,  but  O,  my  soul  is  white ! 

White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree. 
And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day, 

She  took  me  on  her  Lap  and  kissed  me, 
And,  pointing  to  the  East,  began  to  say : 

"  Look  at  the  rising  sun ;  there  God  does  live. 

And  gives  His  light,  and  gives  His  heat 

away. 

And  flowers  and  trees  and  beasts  and  men 

receive 

Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 

"  And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space, 
That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of 
love; 

And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt  face 
Are  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

"  For  when  our  souls  have  learn'd  the  heat 
to  bear, 
The  cloud  will  vanish,  when  we  shall  hear 
His  voice, 

123 


To  Mother 

Saying  'Come  out  from  tlie  grove,  my  love 
and  care, 
And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs  re- 
joice.' " 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me, 
And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy. 

When  I  from  black  and  he  from  white  cloud 
free. 
And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs  we 

joy- 

I  '11  shade  him  from  the  heat  till  he  can  bear 

To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father's  knee ; 
And  then  I'll  stand  and  stroke  his  silver 
hair, 
And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love  me. 

William  Blake 

MY   BIRD 

(Lines  written  at  Burmah  in  joy  for  a  first-born) 

Ere  last  year's  morn  had  left  the  sky, 
A  birdling  sought  my  Indian  nest ; 

And  folded,  oh,  so  lovingly. 

Her  tiny  wings  upon  my  breast. 

From  morn  tiU  evening's  purple  tinge, 
In  winsome  helplessness  she  lies ; 

Two  rosy  leaves  with  a  silken  fringe, 
Shut  softly  on  her  starry  eyes. 
124 


The  Joy  of  Motherhood 

There  's  not  in  Iiid  a  lovelier  bird ; 

Broad  earth  owns  not  a  happier  nest; 
O  God,  thou  hast  a  fountain  stirred, 

Whose  waters  never  more  shall  rest. 

This  beautiful,  mysterious  thing-. 
This  seeming  visitant  from  heaven, 

This  bird  with  the  immortal  wing. 
To  me,  to  me,  thy  hand  has  given. 

The  pulse  first  caught  its  tiny  stroke, 

The  blood  its  crimson  hue,  from  mine;  — 

This  life  which  I  have  dared  invoke, 
Henceforth,  is  parallel  with  thine. 

A  silent  awe  is  in  my  room, 

I  tremble  with  delicious  fear; 
The  future,  with  its  light  and  gloom, 

Time  and  eternity  are  here. 

Doubts,  hopes,  in  eager  tumult  rise, 
Hear,  O  my  God,  one  earnest  prayer: 

Room  for  my  bird  in  Paradise, 

And  give  her  angel-plumage  there. 

Emily  C  Judson 

CHILDREN 

Children  are  what  the  mothers  are. 
No  fondest  father's  fondest  care 

125 


To  Mother 

Can  fashion  so  the  infant  heart 
As  those  creative  beams  that  dart, 
With  all  their  hopes  and  fears,  upon 
The  cradle  of  a  sleeping  son. 

His  startled  eyes  with  wonder  see 
A  father  near  him  on  his  knee. 
Who  wishes  all  the  while  to  trace 
The  mother  in  his  future  face; 
But  't  is  to  her  alone  uprise 
His  waking  arms ;  to  her  those  eyes 
Open  with  joy  and  not  surprise. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 

MY  LITTLE  DEAR 

My  little  dear,  so  fast  asleep. 
Whose  arms  about  me  cling, 

What  kisses  shall  she  have  to  keep, 
While  she  is  slumbering? 

Upon  her  golden  baby-hair. 

The  golden  dreams  I  '11  kiss 
Which  Life  spread  through  my  morning 
fair. 

And  I  have  saved,  for  this. 

Upon  her  baby  eyes  I  '11  press 

The  kiss  Love  gave  to  me, 
When  his  great  joy  and  loveliness 

Made  all  things  fair  to  see. 

126 


\/T] 


The  Joy  of  Motherhood 

Aiicl  ou  her  lips,  with  smiles  astir, 

All  me,  what  prayer  of  old 
May  now  be  kissed  to  comfort  her, 

Should  Love  or  Life  grow  cold. 

Dollie  Radford 


THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  LOVE 

They  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die ; 
With  life  all  other  passions  fly. 

All  others  are  but  vanity  ; 
In  heaven  ambition  cannot  dwell. 
Nor  avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell ; 
Earthly  these  passions  of  the  earth, 
They  perish  where  they  have  their 
birth ; 
But  love  is  indestructible; 
Its  holy  flame  for  ever  burneth. 
From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  return- 
eth. 
Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest. 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  op- 
press'd. 
It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 
Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest : 
It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 
But  the  harvest-time  of  love  is  there. 
Oh !  when  a  mother  meets  on  hijxh 
The  babe  she  lost  iu  infancy, 

.    127 


To  Mother 

Hath  she  not  then,  for  pains  and  fears, 
The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night, 

For  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  tears. 

An  over-payment  of  delight?  ^r 

Robert  Southey 

"THAT  THEY  ALL  MAY  BE  ONE" 

Whene'er  there  comes  a  little  child, 
My  darling  comes  with  him ; 
Whene'er  I  hear  a  birdie  wild 
Who  sings  his  merry  whim, 
Mine  sings  with  him: 
If  a  low  strain  of  music  sails 
Among  melodious  hills  and  dales, 
When  a  white  lamb  or  kitten  leaps, 
Or  star,  or  vernal  flower  peeps, 
When  rainbow  dews  are  pulsing  joy, 
Or  sunny  waves,  or  leaflets  toy, 
Then  he  who  sleeps 
Softly  wakes  within  my  heart ; 
With  a  kiss  from  him  I  start ; 
He  lays  his  head  upon  my  breast, 
Tho'  I  may  not  see  my  guest. 
Dear  bosom-guest! 
In  all  that 's  pure  and  fair  and  good, 
I  feel  the  spring-time  of  thy  blood, 
Hear  thy  whisper'd  accents  flow 
To  lighten  woe. 


128 


The  Joy  0/  Motherhood 

Feel  them  blend, 
Although  I  fail  to  comprehend. 
And  if  one  woiuuleth  with  harsh  word, 
Or  deed,  a  child,  or  beast,  or  bird. 
It  seems  to  strike  weak  Innocence 
Through  him,  who  hath  for  his  defence 
Thunder  of  the  All-loving  Sire, 
And  mine,  to  whom  He  gave  the  fire. 

Moden  Noel 


OLD-FASHIONED^ 
MOTHER  POEMS 


MY  MOTHER 

Who  fed  me  from  her  gentle  breast, 
And  hnslied  me  in  her  arms  to  rest, 
And  on  my  cheek  sweet  kisses  pressed? 
My  Mother. 

When  sleep  forsook  my  open  eye, 
Who  was  it  sang  sweet  lullaby, 
And  rocked  me  that  I  should  not  cry  ? 
My  Mother. 

Who  sat  and  watched  my  infant  head, 
When  sleeping  on  my  cradle  bed. 
And  tears  of  sweet  affection  shed? 
My  Mother. 

When  pain  and  sickness  made  me  cry, 
Who  gazed  upon  my  heavy  eye, 
And  wept  for  fear  that  I  should  die? 
My  Mother. 

Who  dressed  my  doll  in  clothes  so  gay. 
And  taught  me  pretty  how  to  play, 
And  minded  all  I  had  to  say? 

My  Mother. 

J33 


To  Mother 

Who  ran  to  help  me  when  I  fell, 
And  would  some  pretty  story  tell, 
Or  kiss  the  place  to  make  it  well? 
My  Mother. 

Who  taught  my  infant  lips  to  pray, 
And  love  God's  holy  book  and  day, 
And  walk  in  wisdom's  Pleasant  way? 
My  Mother. 

And  can  I  ever  cease  to  be, 
Affectionate  and  kind  to  thee, 
Who  was  so  very  kind  to  me  ? 

My  Mother. 

Ah !  no,  the  thought  I  cannot  bear. 
And  if  God  please  my  life  to  spare, 
I  hope  I  shall  reward  thy  care. 

My  Mother. 

When  thou  art  feeble,  old,  and  gray, 
My  healthy  arms  shall  be  thy  stay, 
And  I  will  soothe  thy  pains  away. 
My  Mother. 

And  when  I  see  thee  hang  thy  head, 
'Twill  be  my  turn  to  watch  thy  bed. 
And  tears  of  sweet  affection  shed. 
My  Mother. 

134 


Old-Fashioned  Mother  Poems 

For  God,  who  lives  above  the  skies, 
Would  look  with  vengeance  in  his  eyes, 
If  I  should  ever  dare  despise 

My  Mother. 

Jane  Taylor 

HALF-WAKING 

I  THOUGHT  it  was  the  little  bed 

I  slept  in  long  ago ; 
A  straight  white  curtain  at  the  head, 

And  two  smooth  knobs  below. 

I  thought  I  saw  the  nursery  fire, 

And  in  a  chair  well-known 
My  mother  sat,  and  did  not  tire 

With  reading  all  alone. 

If  I  should  make  the  slightest  sound 

To  show  that  I  'm  awake, 
She  'd  rise,  and  lap  the  blankets  round, 

My  pillow  softly  shake ; 

Kiss  me  and  turn  my  face  to  see 

The  shadows  on  the  wall, 
And  then  sing  "Kousseau's  Dream"  to 
me 

Till  fast  asleep  I  fall. 


135 


To  Mother 

But  this  is  not  my  little  bed; 

That  time  is  far  away: 
With  strangers  now  I  live  instead, 

From  dreary  day  to  day. 

William  Allingham 


TO   A  CHILD   EMBRACING  HIS 
MOTHER 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one ! 

Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again  — 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 

Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one  I 

Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes, 

And  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee, — 
Hereafter  thou  mayst  shudder  sighs 

To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes! 

Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow 

With  love  that  they  have  often  told, — 

Hereafter  thou  mayst  press  in  woe. 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 

Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow ! 

Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair! 

Although  it  be  not  silver-gray  — 

136 


Old-Fashioned  Mother  Poems 

Too  early  Death,  led  on  by  Care, 

May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 
Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair ! 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn, 

That  Heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer ;  — 
For  thou  mayst  live  the  hour  forlorn 

When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn ! 

Thomas  Hood 


WISHING 

King-Ting!  I  wish  I  were  a  Primrose, 
A  bright  yellow  Primrose   blowing  in  the 
spring ! 
The  stooping  boughs  above  me. 
The  wandering  bee  to  love  me, 
The  fern  and  moss  to  creep  across, 
And  the  Elm-tree  for  our  king  I 

Nay — stay!  I  wish  I  were  an  Elm-tree, 
A  great  lofty  Elm-tree,  with  green  leaves 

gay- 

The  winds  would  set  them  dancing, 
The  sun  and  moonshine  glance  in. 
The  birds  would  house  among  the  boughs, 
And  sweetly  sing! 


137 


To  Mother 

Oh  —  no !  I  wish  I  were  a  Eobin. 
A  Robin  or  a  little  Wren,  everywhere  to  go; 
Through  forest,  field  or  garden, 
And  ask  no  leave  or  pardon, 
Till  winter  comes  with  icy  thumbs 
To  ruffle  up  our  wing ! 

Well  — tell !  Where  should  I  fly  to. 
Where  go  to  sleep  in  the  dark  wood  or  dell  ? 
Before  a  day  was  over, 
Home  comes  the  rover, 
For  mother's  kiss,  —  sweeter  this 
Than  any  other  thing ! 

William  Allingham 


THE  VISIT 

"Do  you  go  to  Norton,  mamma,  this  next 
week? 
I  wish  you  had  leisure  to  listen  to  me, 
For  when  you  are  writing  I  don't  like  to 
speak, 
And  that  letter  will  never  be  finished,  I 
see." 

"I  will  lay  down  my  pen,  then,  my  dear  little 
child. 
For  I  see  you  have  minded  the  lesson  we 
read; 

138 


Old- Fashioned  Mother  Poems 

Come,  jump  on  my  knee  here,"  mamma  said 
and  smiled, 
As  she  kissed  the  soft  hair  on  her  Emily's 
head. 

"Yes,  to  Norton  we  are   going,  and  what 
shall  I  say 
To  your  two  little  playmates  there,  Har- 
riet and  Ann? 
Shall  I  say  you  can  read  now  as  well  as  can 
play, 
And  can  pull  out  your  needle  as  fast  as 
they  can?" 

"No,  mamma,  that  was  not  what  I  wished 
you  to  hear ! 
And  I  fear  you  won't  like  what  I  'm  going 
to  say; 
Stop,  put  down  your  head,  let  me  speak  in 
your  ear, 
For  to  whisper,  I  think,  is  by  much  the 
best  way." 

She  asked  to  be  taken  her  young  friends  to 
see. 
And  to  show  them  her  work-box,  her  dolls, 
and  her  toys ; 
She  said  she  woidd  try  such  a  good  child  to  be, 
And  be  well-bred  and  kind  to  the  two 
little  boys. 

139 


To  Mother 

She  said  if  they  teased  her,  or  for  her  dolls 
cried, 
She  would  not  forget  she  was  older  than 
they, 
If  as  boys  they  were  rude,  she  would  try 
not  to  chide. 
But  would  put  up  the  dolls  until  they 
went  away. 

From  Ann  she  could  learn  how  her  bracelets 
to  string. 
And  with  Harriet  would  practice  doll's 
bonnets  to  make; 
She  would  give  to  the  latter  her  favorite 
ring, 
And  for  dear  little  Ann,  that  Dutch  doU 
she  would  take. 

"Then  pray,  dear  mamma,  pray  do  not  say 
no; 
You  are  always  so  kind,  do  indulge  me  in 
this: 
I  think  if  you  like  it,  papa  '11  let  me  go. 
And  I  shaU  be  so  good,  I  'U  do  nothing 
amiss." 

Papa   was   considted,  and   though   it   was 
far. 
Little  Emily's  goodness  and  worth  gained 
the  day, 

140 


Old-Fashioned  Mother  Poems 

She  was  promised  to  go  when  the  next  week 
came  round, 
And  see  —  there  is  the  carriage  now  driv- 
ing away. 

Rhymes  for  the  Nursery 

THE   BABY 

What  is  the  pretty  little  thing 
That  nurse  so  carefully  doth  bring, 
And  round  its  head  her  apron  fling  ? 
A  baby. 

Oh,  dear,  how  very  soft  its  cheek: 
Why,  nurse,  I  cannot  make  it  speak, 
And  it  can't  walk,  it  is  so  weak. 
Poor  baby. 

Here  take  a  bite,  you  little  dear, 
I  've  got  some  cake  and  sweetmeats  here, 
'T  is  very  nice,  you  need  not  fear. 
You  baby. 

Oh,  I  'm  afraid  that  it  will  die. 
Why  can't  it  eat  as  well  as  I, 
And  jump,  and  talk  ?  do  let  it  try, 
Poor  baby. 

Why,  you  were  once  a  baby  too. 
And  could  not  jump,  as  now  you  do, 
But  good  mamma  took  care  of  you. 
Like  baby. 
141 


To  Mother 

And  then  she  taught  your  pretty  feet 
To  pat  along  the  carpet  neat, 
And  called  papa  to  come  and  meet 
His  baby. 

Oh,  good  mamma,  to  take  such  care, 
And  no  kind  pains  and  trouble  spare. 
To  feed  and  nurse  you  when  you  were 
A  baby. 

Jane  and  Ann  Taylor 

GETTING  UP 

Baby,  baby,  ope  your  eye, 
For  the  sun  is  in  the  sky. 
And  he  's  peeping  once  again 
Through  the  frosty  window  pane ; 
Little  baby,  do  not  keep 
Any  longer  fast  asleep. 

There,  now,  sit  in  mother's  lap, 

That  she  may  untie  your  cap. 

For  the  little  strings  have  got 

Twisted  into  such  a  knot; 

Ah !  for  shame,  —  you  've  been  at  play 

With  the  bobbin,  as  you  lay. 

There  it  comes,  —  now  let  me  see 
Where  your  petticoats  can  be  ; 
142 


Old-Fashioned  Mother  Poems 

Oh,  —  they  're  in  the  window  seat, 
Folded  very  smooth  and  neat : 
When  my  baby  older  grows 
She  shall  double  up  her  clothes. 

Now  one  pretty  little  kiss, 
For  dressing  you  as  neat  as  this, 
And  before  we  go  downstairs. 
Don't  forget  to  say  your  pray'rs, 
For  't  is  God  who  loves  to  keep 
Little  babies  in  their  sleep. 

Jane  Taylor 


MAMMA! 

(From  "The  Floweret") 

My  own  mamma! 

My  dear  mamma ! 
How  happy  I  shall  be, 

To-morrow  night. 

At  candle-light, 
When  she  comes  home  to  me. 

To-morrow  night, 
At  candle-light,  — 

Yes,  that 's  the  time,  they  say, 
That  she  '11  be  here. 
Our  mother  dear,  — 

How  long  she  's  been  away. 
143 


To  Mother 

'T  is  just  a  week, 

Since  on  my  cheek 
She  pressed  the  parting  kiss  ; 

It  seems  like  two,  — 

I  never  knew 
So  long  a  week  as  this. 

My  tangled  hair 

She  smoothed  with  care, 
"With  water  bathed  my  brow  ; 

And  all  with  such 

A  gentle  touch,  — 
There  's  none  to  do  so  now. 

I  cannot  play 
When  she  's  away ; 

There 's  none  to  laugh  with  me 
And  much  1  miss 
The  tender  kiss,  — 

The  seat  upon  her  knee. 

When  up  to  bed 

I  'm  sorrowing  led, 
I  linger  on  the  stairs  ; 

I  lie  and  weep  — 

I  cannot  sleep  — 
I  scarce  can  say  my  prayers. 

144 


Old-Fashioned  Mother  Poems 

But  she  will  come, 
She  '11  be  at  home 
To-mcrrow  night,  and  then 
I  hope  that  she 
Will  never  be 
So  long  away  again. 

Anna  M.  Wells 


TO   MY   MOTHER 

They  tell  us  of  an  Indian  tree 

Which  howsoe'er  the  sun  and  sky 
May  tempt  its  boughs  to  wander  free. 

And  shoot  and  blossom,  wide  and  high, 
Far  better  loves  to  bend  its  arms 

Do%vnward  again  to  that  dear  earth 
From  which  the  life,  that  fills  and  warms 

Its  grateful  being,  first  had  birth. 
'T  is  thus,  though  wooed  by  flattering  friends, 

Aud  fed  with  fame  (if  fame  it  be). 
This  heart,  my  own  dear  mother,  bends, 

With  love's  true  instinct,  back  to  thee ! 

Thomas  Moore 

CUDDLE   DOON 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 
Wi'  muckle  faught  an'  din  ; 
"  Oh  try  and  sleep,  ye  waukrife  rogues, 
Your  faither  's  comin'  in." 
145 


To  Mother 

They  never  heed  a  word  I  speak ; 

I  try  to  gie  a  froon, 
But  aye  I  hap  them  up  an'  cry, 
"  Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

Wee  Jamie  wi'  the  curly  heid  — 
He  aye  sleeps  next  the  wa'  — 

Bangs  up  an'  cries,  "  I  want  a  piece  ;'* 
The  rascal  starts  them  a'. 

I  rin  and  fetch  them  pieces,  drinks, 
They  stop  awee  the  soun', 

Then  draw  the  blankets  up  an'  cry, 
"  Noo,  weanies,  cuddle  doon." 

But,  ere  five  minutes  gang,  wee  Rab 
Cries  out,  frae  'neath  the  claes, 
"  Mither,  mak'  Tam  gie  ower  at  ance. 
He 's  kittlin'  wi'  his  taes." 
The  mischief 's  in  that  Tam  for  tricks. 

He  'd  bother  haK  the  toon ; 
But  aye  I  hap  them  up  and  cry, 
"  Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

At  length  they  hear  their  father's  fit. 

An',  as  he  steeks  the  door. 
They  turn  their  faces  to  the  wa'. 
While  Tam  pretends  to  snore. 
"  Hae  a'  the  weans  been  gude  ?  "  he  asks. 

As  he  pits  aff  his  shoon ; 
"  The  bairnies,  John,  are  in  their  beds. 
An'  lang  since  cuddled  doon." 
146 


Old-Fashioned  Mother  Poems 

An'  just  afore  we  bed  oorsels, 
We  look  at  our  wee  lambs ; 
Tarn  has  Lis  airm  roun'  wee  Rab's 
neck, 
And  Rab  Lis  airm  round  Tam's. 
I  lift  wee  Jamie  up  tlie  bed, 

An'  as  I  straik  eacL  croon, 

I  wLisper,  till  my  Leart  fills  up, 

"OL,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

TLe  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicLt 

Wi'  mirtL  that 's  dear  to  me ; 
But  soon  tlie  big  warl's  cark  an'  care 

Will  quaten  doon  tLeir  glee. 
Yet,  come  wLat  will  to  ilka  ane, 

May  He  wLo  rules  aboon 
Aye  wLisper,   tliougL  tLeir  pows  be 

bald, 
"  OL,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

Alexander  Anderson 

THE  BABY 

Safe  sleeping  on  its  motLer's  breast 
TLe  smiling  babe  appears, 

Now  sweetly  sinking  into  I'est ; 
Now  wasLed  in  sudden  tears : 

HusL,  LusL,  my  little  baby  dear, 

TLere  's  nobody  to  Lurt  you  here. 


147 


To  Mother 

Without  a  mother's  tender  care, 

The  little  thing  must  die, 
Its  chubby  hands  too  feeble  are 

One  service  to  supply  ; 
And  not  a  tittle  does  it  know 
What  kind  of  world  't  is  come  into. 

The  lambs  sport  gayly  on  the  grass 
When  scarcely  born  a  day  ; 

The  foal,  beside  its  mother  ass, 
Trots  frolicksome  away, 

No  other  creature,  tame  or  wild, 

Is  half  so  helpless  as  a  child. 

To  nurse  the  Dolly,  gayly  drest. 
And  stroke  its  flaxen  hair. 

Or  ring  the  coral  at  its  waist, 
With  silver  bells  so  fair, 

Is  all  the  little  creature  can. 

That  is  so  soon  to  be  a  man. 

Full  many  a  summer's  sun  must  glow 

And  lighten  up  the  skies. 
Before  its  tender  limbs  can  grow 

To  anything  of  size  ; 
And  all  the  while  the  mother's  eye 
Must  every  little  want  supply. 

Then  surely,  when  each  little  limb 
Shall  grow  to  healthy  size, 
148 


Old-Fashioned  Mother  Poems 

And  youth  and  manhood  strengthen  him 

For  toil  and  enterprise, 
His  mother's  kindness  is  a  debt, 
He  never,  never  will  forget. 

Jane  Taylor 


GOOD-NIGHT 

Little  baby,  lay  your  head 
On  your  pretty  cradle-bed ; 
Shut  your  eye-peeps  now  the  day 
And  the  light  are  gone  away; 
All  the  clothes  are  tucked  in  tisht : 
Little  baby  dear,  good-night. 

Yes,  my  darling,  well  I  know 
How  the  bitter  wind  doth  blow ; 
And  the  winter's  snow  and  rain 
Patter  on  the  window-pane : 
But  they  cannot  come  in  here. 
To  my  little  baby  dear ; 

For  the  window  shutteth  fast, 
Till  the  stormy  night  is  past ; 
And  the  curtains  warm  are  spread 
Kound  about  her  cradle  bed: 
So  till  morning  shineth  bright 
Little  baby  dear,  good-night. 

Jane  Taylor 
149 


To  Mother 

THE   OLD  ARM-CHAIR 

I  LOVE  it!  I  love  it!  and  who  shall  dare 
To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair? 
I  've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize, 
I  've  bedew'd  it  with  tears,  and  embalm'd  it 

with  sighs ; 
'T  is  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  my  heart ; 
Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 
Would  ye  learn  the  spell? — a  mother  sat 

there, 
And  a  sacred  thing  is  that  old  arm-chair. 

In  childhood's  hour  I  linger'd  near 
The  haUow'd  seat  with  listening  ear; 
And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give, 
To  fit  me  to  die  and  teach  me  to  live: 
She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide 
With  truth  for  my  creed  and  God  for  my 

guide; 
She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer, 
As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 

I  sat  and  watch'd  her  many  a  day. 

When  her  eye  grew  dim,  and  her  locks  were 

gray; 
And    I    almost   worshipp'd    her   when    she 

smiled. 
And  turn'd  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 

150 


Old-Fashioned  Mother  Poems 

Years  roll'd  on,  but  the  last  one  sped  — 
]My  idol  was  shatter'd,  ray  earth-star  fled ; 
I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear, 
When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-chair. 

'T  is  past !  't  is  past !  but  I  gaze  on  it  now 
With  quivering  breath  and  throbbing  brow : 
'T  was  there  she  nursed  me,  't  was  there  she 

died; 
And  memory  flows  with  lava  tide. 
Say  it  is  folly,  and  deem  me  weak, 
While  the  scalding  drops  start  down  my 

cheek ; 
But  I  love,  I  love  it !  and  cannot  tear 
My  soul  from  a  mother's  old  arm-chair. 

JEJliza  Cook 


SONNETS  on  *^* 
MOTHERHOOD  * 


AD  MATREM 

Oft  in  the  after  days,  when  thou  and  I 
Have  fallen  from  the  cope  of  human  view, 
When,  both  together,  under  the  sweet  sky 
We  sleep  beneath  the  daisies  and  the  dew, 
Men  will  recall  thy  gi-acious  presence  bland. 
Conning  the  pictured  sweetness  of  thy  face ; 
Will  pore  o'er  paintings  by  thy  plastic  hand. 
And  vaunt  thy  skill,  and  tell  thy  deeds  of 

grace. 
Oh  may  they  then,  who  crown  thee  with  true 

bays, 
Saying,  "  What  love  unto  her  son  she  bore ! " 
Make  this  addition  to  thy  perfect  praise, 
"Nor    ever    yet    was    mother    worshiped 

more  I " 
So  shall  I  live  with  thee,  and  thy  dear  fame 
Shall  link  my  love  unto  thine  honored  name. 
Julian  Henry  Fane 

NATURE 

As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
Leads  by  the  hand  her  little  child  to  bed, 
Half  willing,  half  reluctant  to  be  led. 
And  leave  his  broken  playthings  on  the 
floor, 

155 


To  Mother 

Still  gazing  at  them  through  the  open  door, 
Nor  wholly  reassured  and  comforted 
By  promises  of  others  in  their  stead, 
Which,  though  more  splendid,  may  not 
please  him  more ; 
So  Nature  deals  with  us,  and  takes  away 
Our  pla3i;hings  one  by  one,  and  by  the 

hand 
Leads  us  to  rest  so  gently,  that  we  go 
Scarce  knowing  if  we  wish  to  go  or  stay, 
Being  too  full  of  sleep  to  understand 
How  far  the  unknown  transcends  the  what 
we  know. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

BEDTIME 

'T  IS   bedtime ;    say  your    hymn,   and    bid 

"  Good -night ; 
God  bless  Mamma,   Papa,  and  dear  ones 

aU." 
Your  half-shut  eyes  beneath   your  eyelids 

fall, 
Another  minute,  you  will  shut  them  quite. 
Yes,  I  will  carry  you,  put  out  the  light, 
And   tuck   you  up,    although   you  are    so 

tall! 
What  will  you  give  me,  sleepy  one,  and  eall 
My  wages,  if  I  settle  you  all  right? 
I  laid  her  golden  curls  upon  my  arm, 
156 


Sonnets  on  Motherhood 

I  drew  her  little  feet  within  my  hand, 

Her  rosy  palms  were  joined  in  trustful  bliss, 

Her  heart  next  mine  beat  gently,  soft  and 

warm 
She  nestled  to  me,  by  Love's  command, 
Paid    me    my   precious    wages  — "  Baby's 

Kiss." 

Francis,  Earl  of  Rosslyn 

HER  FIRSTBORN 

It  was  her  first  sweet  child,  her  heart's  de- 
light : 
And,  though  we  all  foresaw  his  early  doom, 
We  kept  the  fearful  secret  out  of  sight ; 
We  saw  the  canker,  but  she  kiss'd  the  bloom. 
And  yet  it  might  not  be :    we  could  not 

brook 
To  vex  her  happy  heart  with  vague  alarms. 
To  blanch  with  fear  her  fond  intrepid  look. 
Or   send  a  thrill  through   those  encircling 

arms. 
She  smil'd  upon  him,  waking  or  at  rest: 
She  could  not  dream  her  little  child  would 

die: 
She  toss'd  him  fondly  with  an  upward  eye: 
She  seem'd  as  buoyant  as  a  summer  spray, 
That  dances  with  a  blossom  on  its  breast, 
Nor  knows  how  soon  it  will  be  borne  away. 
Charles  Tennyson  Turner 

lol 


To  Mother 

TO   A  YOUNG  CHILD 

As  doth  his  heart  who  travels  far  from  home 
Leap  up  whenever  he  by  chance  doth  see 
One  from  his  mother-country  lately  come, 
Friend  from  my  home  —  thus  do  I  welcome 

thee. 
Thou  art  so  late  arrived  that  1  the  tale 
Of  thy  high  lineage  on  thy  brow  can  trace, 
And  almost  feel  the  breath  of  that  soft  gale 
That  wafted  thee  unto  this  desert  place, 
And  half  can  hear  those  ravishing  sounds 

that  flowed 
From  out  Heaven's  gate  when  it  was  oped 

for  thee. 
That  thou  awhile  mightst  leave  thy  bright 

abode 
Amid  these  lone  and  desolate  tracks  to  be 
A  homesick,  weary  wanderer,  and  then 
Keturn  unto  thy  native  land  again. 

Eliza  Scudder 


THE   VIRGIN 

Mother!  whose  virgin  bosom  was  uncrost 
With  the  least  shade  of  thought  to  sin  allied ; 
Woman  !  above  all  women  glorified, 
Our  tainted  nature's  solitary  boast ; 
Purer  than  foam  on  central  ocean  tost; 
158 


Sonnets  on  Motherhood 

Brighter   than  eastern    skies    at    daybreak 

strewn 
With  fancied  roses,  than  the  unblemished 

moon 
Before  her  wane  begins  on  heaven's  blue 

coast ; 
Thy  image  falls  to  earth.  Yet  some,  I  ween, 
Not  unforgiven    the  suppliant   knee  might 

bend, 
As  to  a  visible  Power,  in  which  did  blend 
All  that  was  mixed  and  reconciled  in  Thee 
Of  mother's  love  with  maiden  purity. 
Of  high  with  low,  celestial  with  terrene ! 

William  Wordsworth 

THANKSGIVING  AFTER 
CHILDBIRTH 

Woman  !  the  Power  who  left  his  throne  on 

high, 
And  deigned  to  wear  the  robe  of  flesh  we 

wear, 
The  Power  that  thro'  the  straits  of  Infancy 
Did  pass  dependent  on  maternal  care. 
His  own  humanity  with  Thee  will  share. 
Pleased  with  the  thanks  that  in  his  People's 

eye 
Thou  offerest  up  for  safe  Delivery 
From    Childbirth's    perilous    throes.     And 

should  the  Heir 
159 


To  Mother 

Of  thy  fond  hopes  hereafter  walk  inclined 
To  courses  fit  to  make  a  mother  rue 
That  ever  he  was  born,  a  glance  of  mind 
Cast  upon  this  observance  may  renew 
A  better  will ;  and,  in  the  imagined  view 
Of  thee  thus  kneeling,  safety  he  may  find. 
William  Wordsworth 

MY  MOTHER 

There  was  a  gather'd  stillness  in  the  room : 
Only  the  breathing  of  the  great  sea  rose 
From  far  off,  aiding  that  profound  repose, 
With  regular  pulse  and  pause  within  the 

gloom 
Of  twilight,  as  if  some  impending  doom 
Was  now  approaching ;  —  I  sat  moveless  there, 
Watching  with  tears  and  thoughts  that  were 

like  prayer. 
Till  the  hour  struck,  —  the  thread  dropp'd 

from  the  loom ; 
And  the  Bark  pass'd  in  which  freed  souls 

are  borne. 
The  dear  still'd  face  lay  there ;  that  sound 

forlorn 
Continued ;  I  rose  not,  but  long  sat  by : 
And  now  my  heart  oft  hears  that  sad  seashore, 
When  she  is  in  the  far-off  land,  and  I 
Wait  the  dark  sail  returning  yet  once  more. 
William  Bell  Scott 
160 


Sonnets  of  Motherhood 

EVENING 

Age  cannot  wither  her  whom  not  gray  hairs 
Nor  furrowed  cheeks  have  made  the  thrall 

of  Time ; 
For  Spring  lies  hidden  under  Winter's  rime, 
And  violets  know  the  victory  is  theirs. 
Even  so  the  corn  of  Egj^t,  imawares, 
Proud  Nilus  shelters  with  engulfing  slime ; 
So  Etna's  hardening  crust  a  more  sublime 
Volley  of  pent-up  fires  at  last  prepares. 
O  face  yet  fair,  if  paler,  and  serene 
With  sense  of  duty  done  without  complaint ! 
O  venerable  crown !  —  a  living  green, 
Strength  to  the  weak,  and  courage  to  the 

faint  — 
Thy  bleaching  locks,  thy  wrinkles,  have  but 

been 
Fresh  beads  upon  the  rosary  of  a  saint ! 

Wendell  Phillips  Garrison 

TO  MY  FIRST  LOVE,  MY  MOTHER 

Sonnets  are  full  of  love,  and  this  my  tome 

Has  many  sonnets :  so  here  now  shall  be 

One  sonnet  more,  a  love  sonnet,  from  me 

To  her  whose  heart  is  my  heart's  quiet  home. 

To  my  first  Love,  my  Mother,  on  whose 

knee 

IGl 


To  Mother 

I  learnt  love-lore  that  is  not  troublesome ; 

Whose  service  is  my  special  dignity, 
And  she  my  lodestar  while  I  go  and  come. 

And  so  because  you  love  me,  and  because 
I   love   you.   Mother,    I   have   woven   a 
wreath 
Of  rhymes  wherewith  to  crown  your 

honored  name: 
In  you  not  fourscore  years  can  dim  the 
flame 
Of  love,  whose  blessed  glow  transcends  the 
laws 
Of  time  and  change  and  mortal  life  and 
death. 

Christina  G.  Mossetti 


TRIBUTES 
MOTHERS 


MOTHER  O'   MINEi 

If  I  were  hanged  on  the  highest  hill, 

Mother  o'  mine^  O  mother  o'  mine  ! 

I  know  whose  love  would  follow  me  still, 
Mother  o'  mine,  O  mother  o'  mine  ! 

If  I  were  drowned  in  the  deepest  sea. 

Mother  o'  mine^  0  mother  o'  mine  ! 

I  know  whose  tears  would  come  down  to  me, 
Mother  o'  mine^  0  mother  o'  mine  ! 

If  I  were  damned  of  body  and  soul, 
I  know  whose  prayers  would  make  me  whole. 
Mother  o'  mme,  0  mother  o'  mine  ! 

Mudyard  Kipling 


AT  BETHLEHEM 

Long,  long  before  the  Babe  could  speak. 
When  he  would  kiss  his  mother's  cheek 

And  to  her  bosom  press. 
The  brightest  angels  standing  near 
Would  turn  away  to  hide  a  tear  — 

For  they  are  motherless. 

^  By  permission  of  the  author,  Rudyard  Kiplinjj. 
From  The  Light  that  Failed,  copyright,  1S09,  by  Rud- 
yard Kipling. 

165 


To  Mother 

Where  were  ye,  Birds,  that  bless  His  name, 
When  wingless  to  the  world  He  came, 
And  wordless,  though  Himself  the  Word 
That  made  the  blossom  and  the  bird  ? 

John  Banister  Tahh 


TO  HIS  MOTHER 

He  brought  a  Lily  white. 
That  bowed  its  fragrant  head 
And  blushed  a  rosy  red 
Before  her  fairer  light. 

He  brought  a  rose ;  and,  lo, 
The  crimson  blossom  saw 
Her  beauty,  and  in  awe 
Became  as  white  as  snow. 

John  Banister  Tahh 


THE   SHEPHERDESS 

She  walks  —  the  lady  of  my  delight  — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 
Her  flocks  are  thoughts.  She  keeps  them 
white ; 
She  guards  them  from  the  steep. 
She  feeds  them  on  the  fragrant  height, 
And  folds  them  in  for  sleep. 
166 


Tributes  to  Mothers 

She  roams  maternal  hills  and  bright, 
Dark  valleys  safe  and  deep. 

Into  that  tender  breast  at  night 
The  chastest  stars  may  peep. 

She  walks  —  the  lady  of  my  delight  — 
A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

She  holds  her  little  thoughts  in  sight. 
Though  gay  they  run  and  leap. 

She  is  so  circumspect  and  right ; 
She  has  her  soul  to  keep. 

She  walks  —  the  lady  of  my  delight  — 
A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

Alice  Meynell 

MOTHERLESS 

I  ^VRITE.  My  mother  was  a  Florentine, 
Whose  rare  blue  eyes  were  shut  from  seeing 

me 
When  scarcely  I  was  four  years  old  ;  my  life, 
A  poor  spark  snatched  up  from  a  failing  lamp 
Which  went  out  therefore.  She  was  weak 

and  frail; 
She  could  not  bear  the  joy  of  giving  life  — 
The  mother's  rapture  slew  her.  If  her  kiss 
Had  left  a  longer  weight  upon  my  lips, 
It  might  have  steadied  the  uneasy  breath, 
And  reconciled  and  fraternized  my  soul 
With  a  new  order.  As  it  was,  indeed, 
107 


To  Mother 

I  felt  a  mother-want  about  the  world, 
And  still  went  seeking,  like  a  bleating  lamb 
Left  out  at  night,  in  shutting  up  the  fold,  — 
As  restless  as  a  nest-deserted  bird 
Grown  chill  through  something  being  away, 

though  what 
It  knows  not.  I,  Aurora  Leigh,  was  born 
To  make  my  father  sadder,  and  myself 
Not  overjoyous,  truly.  Women  know 
The  way  to  rear  up  children  (to  be  just) 
They  know  a  simple,  merry,  tender  knack 
Of  tying  sashes,  fitting  baby-shoes. 
And  stringing  pretty  words  that  make  no 

sense. 
And  kissing  full  sense  into  empty  words ; 
Which  things  are  corals  to  cut  life  upon, 
Although  such  trifles :  children  learn  by  such 
Love's  holy  earnest  in  a  pretty  play, 
And  get  not  over-early  solemnized,  — 
But  seeing,  as  in  a  rose-bush,  Love's  Divine, 
Which  burns  and  hurts  not,  —  not  a  single 

bloom,  — 
Become  aware  and  unafraid  of  Love. 
Such  good  do  mothers.  Fathers  love  as  well. 
—  Mine  did,  I  know,  —  but  still  with  heavier 

brains. 
And  wills  more  consciously  responsible, 
And  not  as  wisely,  since  less  foolishly ; 
So  mothers  have  God's  license  to  be  missed. 
Mizahcth  Barrett  Browning 
168 


Tributes  to  Mothers 

CHILD  AND  MOTHER 

0  Mother-My-Love,  if  you  '11  give  me  your 

hand, 
And  go  where  I  ask  you  to  wander, 

1  will  lead  you  away  to  a  beautiful  land  — 
The  Dreamland  that's  waiting  out  yon- 
der. 

We  '11  walk  in  a  sweet-posie  garden  out  there 
Where  moonlight  and  starlight  are  stream- 
ing 
And  the  flowers  and  birds  are  filling  the 
air 
With  fragrance  and  music  of  dreaming. 

There  '11  be  no  little  tired-out  boy  to  undress, 

No  questions  or  cares  to  perplex  you ; 
There  '11  be  no  little  bruises  or  bumps  to 
caress, 
Nor  patching  of  stockings  to  vex  you. 
For  I'll    rock   you  away  on   a   silver-dew 
stream, 
And  sing  you  asleep  when  you  're  weary. 
And  no  one   shall  know  of   our  beautiful 
dream 
But  you  and  your  own  little  dearie. 

And  when  I  am  tired  I  '11  nestle  my  head 
In  the  bosom  that 's  soothed  me  so  often, 

109 


To  Mother 

And  the  wide-awake  stars  shall  sing  in  my 
stead 
A  song  which  our  dreaming  shall  soften. 
So  Mother-my-Love,  let  me  take  your  dear 
hand, 
And   away  through  the   starlight   we'll 
wander  — 
Away  through   the  mist  to   the  beautiful 
land  — 
The  Dreamland  that's  waiting  out  yon- 
der! 

Eugene  Field 

MY   AIN   WIFE 

I  WADNA  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

For  ony  wife  I  see  ; 
I  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

For  ony  wife  I  see; 
A  bonnier  yet  I  've  never  seen, 

A  better  canna  be  — 
I  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

For  ony  wife  I  see ! 

0  couthie  is  my  ingie-cheek, 
An'  cheerie  is  my  Jean ; 

1  never  see  her  angry  look, 

Nor  hear  her  word  on  ane. 
She  's  gude  wi'  a'  the  neebours  roun' 
An'  aye  gude  wi'  me  — 
170 


Tributes  to  Mothers 

I  wadna  gi'e  ray  ain  wife 
For  ony  wife  I  see. 

An'  O  her  looks  sae  kincUie, 

They  melt  my  heart  outright, 
When  o'er  the  baby  at  her  breast 

She  hangs  wi'  fond  delight ; 
She  looks  intill  its  bonnie  face, 

An'  syne  looks  to  me  — 
I  wadna  gi'e  ray  ain  wife 

For  ony  wife  I  see. 

Alexander  Laing 


1/ 


SHE   WAS    A  PHANTOM  OF 
DELIGHT 


She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too ! 


To  Mother 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food, 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles. 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveler  between  life  and  death ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light.       r 

William  Wordsworth 


CLING  TO   THY  MOTHER 

Cling  to  thy  mother ;  for  she  was  the  first 
To  know  thy  being,  and  to  feel  thy  life ; 
The  hope  of  thee  through  many  a  pang  she 
nurst ; 
And  when,  midst  anguish  like  the  parting 
strife, 

172 


Tributes  to  Mothers 

Her  babe  was  in  her  arras,  the  agony 
Was  all  forgot,  for  bliss  of  loving  thee. 

Be  gentle  to  thy  mother ;  long  she  bore 

Thine  infant  fretfulness  and  silly  youth ; 
Nor  rudely  scorn  the  faithful  voice  that  o'er 
Thy  cradle  pray'd,  and  taught  thy  lisp- 
ings  truth. 
Yes,  she  is  old ;  yet  on  thine  adult  brow 
She  looks,  and  claims  thee  as  her  child  e'en 
now. 

Uphold  thy  mother ;  close  to  her  warm  heart 
She  carried,  fed  thee,  lull'd  thee  to  thy 
rest ; 
Then  taught  thy  tottering  limbs  their  un- 
tried art, 
Exulting  in  the  fledging  from  her  nest ; 
And  now  her  steps  are  feeble,  by  her  stay. 
Whose  strength  was  thine  in  thy  most  feeble 
day. 

Cherish  thy  mother;    brief  perchance  the 
time 
May  be  that  she  will  claim  the  care  she 
gave; 
Past  are  her  hopes  of  youth,  her  harvest 
prime 
Of  joy  on  earth  ;  her  friends  are  in  the 
grave ; 

173 


To  Mother 

But  for  her  children,  she  could  lay  her  head 
Gladly  to  rest  among  her  precious  dead. 

Be  tender  with  thy  mother ;  words  unkind, 
Or  light  neglect  from  thee,  will  give  a 
pang 

To  that  fond  bosom,  where  thou  art  en- 
shrined 
In  love  unutterable,  more  than  fang 

Of  venom'd  serpent.  Wound  not  that  strong 
trust 

As  thou  wouldst  hope  for  peace  when  she  is 
dust. 

O  mother  mine !  God  grant  I  ne'er  forget, 
Whatever  be  my  grief,  or  what  my  joy, 
The  unmeasured,  inextinguishable  debt 
I  owe  thy  love ;  but  make  my  sweet  em- 
ploy 
Ever  through  thy  remaining  days  to  be 
To  thee  as  faithful,  as  thou  wert  to  me. 

George  Bethune 


NOW  I  LAY  ME  DOWN  TO  SLEEP 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep : 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep," 
Was  ray  childhood's  early  prayer 
Taught  by  my  mother's  love  and  care. 
174 


Tributes  to  Mothers 

Many  years  since  then  have  fled  ; 
Mother  shimbers  with  the  dead  ; 
Yet  methiuks  I  see  her  now, 
With  love-lit  eyes  and  holy  brow, 
As,  kneeling  by  her  side  to  pray, 
She  gently  taught  me  how  to  say, 
"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep : 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep." 

Oh !  could  the  faith  of  childhood's  days 
Oh !  could  its  little  hymns  of  praise. 
Oh !  could  its  simple,  joyous  trust 
Be  recreated  from  the  dust 
That  lies  around  a  wasted  life, 
The  fruit  of  many  a  bitter  strife ! 
Oh  !  then  at  night  in  prayer  I  'd  bend, 
And  call  my  God,  my  Father,  Friend, 
And  pray  with  childlike  faith  once  more 
The  prayer  ray  mother  taught  of  yore,  — 
"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep : 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep." 

Eugene  Henry  Pullen 


BIRTH 

Just  when  each  bud  was  big  with  bloom. 
And  as  prophetic  of  perfume, 

When  spring,  with  her  bright  horoscope. 
Was  sweet  as  an  unuttered  hope  ; 

175 


To  Mother 

Just  when  the  last  star  flickered  out, 
And  twilight,  like  a  soul  in  doubt, 

Hovered  between  the  dark  and  dawn, 
And  day  lay  waiting  to  be  born ; 

Just  when  the  gray  and  dewy  air 
Grew  sacred  as  an  unvoiced  prayer, 

And  somewhere  through  the  dusk  she  heard 
The  stirring  of  a  nested  bird,  — 

Four  angels  glorified  the  place : 

Wan  Pain  unveiled  her  awful  face ; 

Joy,  soaring,  sang ;  Love,  brooding,  smiled ; 
Peace  laid  upon  her  breast  a  child. 
Annie R.  Stillman  ("  Grace Raymond^^^ 


ONLY  ONE 

Hundreds  of  stars  in  the  pretty  sky ; 

Hundreds  of  shells  on  the  shore  together ; 
Hundreds  of  birds  that  go  singing  by ; 

Hundreds  of  bees  in  the  simny  weather. 

Hundreds  of  dewdrops  to  greet  the  dawn ; 

Hundreds  of  lambs  in  the  purple  clover ; 
Hundreds  of  butterflies  on  the  lawn ; 

But  only  one  mother  the  wide  world  over. 

George  Coopefr 


176 


Tributes  to  Mothers 

"  THE  OLD  FACE  OF  THE  MOTHER 
OF  MANY  CHILDREN  " 

The  old  face  of  the  mother  of  many  children, 
Whist !  I  am  fully  content. 

Lull'd  and  late  is  the  smoke  of  the  First-day 

morning, 
It  hangs  low  over  the  rows  of  trees  by  the 

fences, 
It  hangs  thin  by  the  sassafras  and  wUd- 

cherry  and  cat-brier  under  them. 

I  saw  the  rich  ladies  in  full  dress  at  the 

soiree, 
I  heard  what  the  singers  were  singing  so 

long, 
Heard  who  sprang  in  crimson  youth  from 

the  white  froth  and  the  Water-blue. 

Behold  a  woman ! 

She  looks  out  from  her  Quaker  cap,  her  face 

is  clearer  and  more  beautiful  than  the 

sky. 

She  sits  in  an  armchair  under  the  shaded 

porch  of  the  farmhouse. 
The  sun  just  shines  on  her  old  white  head. 
177 


To  Mother 

Her  ample  gown  is  of  cream-hued  linen, 
Her  grandsons  raised  the  flax,  and  lier  grand- 
daughters spun  it  with  the  distaff  and 
the  wheel. 

The  melodious  character  of  the  earth, 

The  finish  beyond  which  philosophy  cannot 

go  and  does  not  wish  to  go. 
The  justified  mother  of  men. 

Walt  Whitman 


A  MOTHER 

Ah  !   bless'd   are  they  for  whom,  'raid  all 

their  pains. 
That  faithful  and  unalter'd  love  remains ; 
Who,  Life  wreck'd  round  them  —  hunted 

from  their  rest  — 
And,  by  all  else  forsaken  or  distress'd  — 
Claim,  in   one  heart,  their  sanctuary  and 

shrine  — 
As    I,    my   Mother,   claim'd   my  place   in 

thine ! 
Oft,  since  that  hour,  in  sadness  I  retrace 
My  childhood's  vision  of  thy  calm  sweet 

face; 
Oft    see    thy   form,    its    mournful   beauty 

shrouded 
In  thy  black  weeds,  and  coif  of  widow's 

woe; 

178 


Tributes  to  Mothers 

Thy  dark  expressive  eyes  all  dim  and  clouded 
By   that   deep   wretchedness   the    lonely 
know: 
Stifling  thy  grief,  to  hear  some  weary  task, 
Conn'd  by  unwilling  lips,  with  listless  air ; 
Hoarding  thy  means,  lest  future  need  might 
ask 
More  than  the  widow's  pittance  then  could 
spare. 
Hidden,  forgotten  by  the  great  and  gay, 

Enduring  sorrow,  not  by  fits  and  starts, 
But  the  long  self-denial,  day  by  day. 

Alone  amidst  thy  brood  of  careless  hearts ! 
Striving  to  guide,  to  teach,  or  to  restrain. 
The    young    rebellious    spirits    crowding 
round. 
Who  saw  not,  knew  not,  felt  not  for  thy 
pain. 
And  could  not  comfort  —  yet  had  power 
to  wound  I 
All !  how  my  selfish  heart,  which  since  hath 

grown 
Familiar  with  deep  trials  of  its  own. 
With  riper  judgment  looking  to  the  past. 
Regrets  the  careless  days  that  flew  so  fast. 
Stamps  with  remorse  each  wasted  hour  of 

time. 
And  darkens  every  folly  into  crime ! 

Caroline  E.  S.  Norton 


179 


To  Mother 


TO   MY  MOTHER 

I  SEE  your  face  as  on  that  calmer  day 
When  from  my  infant  eyes  it  passed  away 
Beyond  these  petty  cares  and  questionings 
Beyond   this    sphere   of    sordid    human 
things  — 
The  trampled  field  of  time's  capricious  play. 

Bright  with  more  mother-love  than  tongue 

can  say, 
Stern  with  the  sense  of  foes  in  strong  array, 
Yet  hopeful,  with  no  hopefulness  earth 
brings  — 
I  see  your  face. 

O  gracious  guarder  from  the  primrose  way, 
O  loving  guide  when  wayward  feet  would 
stray, 
O  inspiration  sweet  when  the  heart  sings, 
O  patient  ministrant  to  sufferings, 
Down  the  long  road,  madonna  mia,  may 
I  see  your  face. 

Robert  Haven  Schavffier 


180 


Tributes  to  Mothers 


MY  MOTHER 


She  was  as  good  as  goodness  is. 
Her  acts  and  all  her  words  were  kind, 
And  high  above  all  memories 
I  hold  the  beauty  of  her  mind. 

Frederic  Hentz  Adams 


THE   END 


L 


INDEXES 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

A  month,  sweet  little  ones,  is  past      ....    16 

A  Stranger,  to  His  own 84 

A  Widow,  —  she  had  only  one! 7 

Age  cannot  wither  her  whom  not  gray  hairs  .  .  161 
Ah!  bless'd  are  they  for  whom,  'mid  all  .  .  .  178 
As  a  fond  mother,  when  the  day  is  o'er  .  .  .  155 
As  doth  his  heart  who  travels  far  from  home  .       .  158 

As  Joseph  was  a-waukin' 82 

Auld  Daddy  Darkness  creeps  frae  his  hole      . .     .  102 

Baby,  baby,  ope  your  eye 142 

Before  I  knew  the  love  of  man 62 

Brightly  far  him  the  future  smiled      ....     63 

Brook,  of  the  listening  grass 19 

Children  are  what  the  mothers  are  ....  125 
Cling  to  thy  mother;  for  she  was  the  first  .  .  172 
Dead!  One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east  .  S3 
Departed  Child!  I  could  forget  thee  once  .  .  24 
"Do  you  go  to  Norton,  mamma,  this  next  week?"  138 
Ere  last  year's  morn  had  left  the  sky ....  124 

Ere  the  moon  begins  to  rise 95 

Every  week  of  every  season  out  of  English  ports  go 

forth 58 

He  brought  a  Lily  white 166 

He  came  all  so  still 87 

He  sang  so  wildly,  did  the  Boy 6 

Heigh  Ho!  daisies  and  buttercups       ....      3 

"Ho,  Sailor  of  the  sea!" 40 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  .  .  .18 
"How  many  miles  to  Baby-Land?"  ....  112 
Hundreds  of  stars  in  the  pretty  sky  .  .  .  .176 
Hush!  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber  .       ...     92 

I  have  two  sons,  wife 61 

I  love  it!  I  love  it!  and  who  shall  dare  .  .  .  150 
I  see  your  face  as  on  that  calmer  day        .       .       .  180 

I  thought  it  was  the  little  bed 135 

I  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife 170 

I  write.  My  mother  was  a  Florentine  .       .  167 

185 


Index  of  First  Lines 

If  I  were  hanged  on  the  highest  hill  .  .  ,  .165 
Is  the  noise  of  grief  in  the  palace  over  the  river  .  79 
It  was  her  first  sweet  child,  her  heart's  delight      .  157 

It  was  the  winter  wild 09 

Just  when  each  bud  was  big  with  bloom   .       .       .  175 

Little  baby,  lay  your  head 14"9 

Long,  long  before  the  Babe  could  speak  .  .  .165 
Lord,  I  am  weeping.   As  Thou  wilt,  O  Lord    .       .     62 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one! 136 

Mary! 54 

Mother  of  Christ  long  slain,  forth  glided  she  .      .     65 

Mother  wept,  and  father  sigh'd 39 

Mother!  whose  virgin  bosom  was  uncrost        .       .158 

My  heart  is  like  a  fountain  true 113 

My  little  dear,  so  fast  asleep 126 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild  .  .  123 
My  mother's  hands  are  cool  and  fair         ...     28 

My  own  mamma! 143 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep  " 174 

O,  Hush  thee,  my  babie,  thy  sire  was  a  knight  .  106 
O  Mother-My-Love,  if  you'll  give  me  your  hand  .  169 
O  that  those  lips  had  language!  Life  has  passed    .     44 

O  when  the  half-light  weaves 42 

Oft  in  the  after  days,  when  thou  and  I      .       .       .  155 
Oh,  to  come  home  once  more,  when  the  dusk  is  fall- 
ing        118 

Ring-Ting!  I  wish  I  were  a  Primrose  .  .  .137 
Safe  sleeping  on  its  mother's  breast  ....  147 
Say,  did  his  sisters  wonder  what  could  Joseph  see    83 

Sea-Birds  are  asleep  91 

She  seemed  an  angel  to  our  infant  eyes!  ...  4 
She  walks  —  the  lady  of  my  delight    ....  166 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 171 

She  was  as  good  as  goodness  is 181 

Sleep,  Baby,  sleep! 95 

Sleep,  little  baby  of  mine 115 

Sleep,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings    ...     96 

Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright 105 

So  fair,  so  dear,  so  warm  upon  my  bosom        .       .111 

So;  it  is  nightfall  then 22 

Sonnets  are  full  of  love,  and  this  my  tome  .  .161 
Still  farther  would  I  fly,  my  child        ....     43 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low 92 

186 


Index  of  First  Lines 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht  ....  145 
The  dark-fringed  eyelids  slowly  close  .  .  .119 
The  days  are  cold,  the  nights  are  long  ...  97 
The  old  face  of  the  mother  of  many  children  .  .  177 
The  wind  blew  wide  the  casement,  and  within  .  121 
There  sitteth  a  dove,  so  fair  and  white  ...  98 
They  sin  who  tell  us  love  can  die        .       .       .       .127 

They  tell  us  of  an  Indian  tree 145 

There  was  a  gather'd  stillness  in  the  room       .       .  160 

There's  a  song  in  the  air! 85 

This  book  is  all  that 's  left  me  now,  —      ...     50 

This,  then,  is  she 7 

Thou  that  once,  on  mother's  knee       ....     86 
'T  is  bedtime;  say  your  hymn,  and  bid  "Good- 
night"         156 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee  .  .  104 
What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about?       .       .       .  116 

What  is  the  pretty  little  thing 141 

What  is  the  road  to  slumber-land  and  when  does  the 

baby  go? 98 

Whene'er  there  comes  a  little  child     ....  128 

White  little  hands! 103 

Who  fed  me  from  her  gentle  breast  ....  133 
Within  the  crib  that  stands  beside  my  bed  .  .  122 
Woman!  the  Power  who  left  his  throne  on  high.  .  159 
Would  you  know  the  baby's  skies?  ....  16 
Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night  .  .  .  100 
Ye  Spartan  mothers,  gentle  ones         ....    61 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 

Aboriginal    Mother's 

Lament,  An Charles  Harpur 43 

Absent    Soldier    Son, 

The Sidney  Dobell 62 

Ad  Matrem Julian  Henry  Fane 155 

Alison's  Mother  to  the 

Brook Josephine  Preston  Peabody  19 

At  Bethlehem John  Banister  Tabb   165 

Auld  Daddy  Darkness  James  Ferguson 102 

Baby,  The Jane  Taylor 147 

Baby,  The Jane  and  Ann  Taylor 141 

Babj'-Land George  Cooper 112 

Baby's  Skies M.  C.  Bartlett 16 

Bedtime Francis,  Earl  of  Rosslyn. . .  156 

Birth Annie  R.  Stillman 175 

("Grace  Raymond") 

Carol,  A Unknown 87 

Child  and  Mother Eugene  Field 169 

Children Walter  Savage  Landor.  .  . .   125 

Children's  Kisses Josephine  Preston  Peabody    22 

Christ  the  Mendicant .  John  Banister  Tabb 84 

Christmas  Carol,  A .  . .  Josiah  Gilbert  Holland.  ...     85 

Christmas  Carol Unknown 82 

Cling  to  thy  Mother.  .George  Bethune 172 

Cottager's  Lullaby, 

The Dorothy  Wordsworth 97 

Cradle  Hymn,  A Isaac  Watts 92 

Cradle  Song Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 95 

Cradle  Song William  Blake 105 

Cradle  Song  (From 

"Bitter-Sweet") Josiah  Gilbert  Holland 116 

Cradle  Song Unknown 115 

Cuddle  Doon Alexander  Anderson 145 

Daguerreotype,  The..  .William  Vaughn  Moody. . .       7 

18'J 


Index  of  Titles 

English  Mother,  An. . .  Robert  Underwood  Johnson  58 
Evening Wendell  Phillips  Garrison..   161 

Firstborn,  The John  Arthur  Goodchild. ...  Ill 

Getting  Up Jane  Taylor 142 

Good-Night Jane  Taylor 149 

Half- Waking William  Allingham 135 

Her  Firstborn Charles  Tennyson  Turner..  157 

How's  My  Boy? Sidney  Dobell 40 

Hymn  on  the  Nativity  John  Milton 69 

Immortality   of  Love, 
The Robert  Southey 127 

Japanese  Lullaby Eugene  Field 96 

Lines  to  My  Mother's 

Picture William  Cowper 44 

Little  Black  Boy,  The..  William  Blake 123 

Little  Child's  Hymn, 

A Francis  Turner  Palgrave.. .     86 

Lullaby   of  an   Infant 

Chief Walter  Scott 106 

MammaJ Anna  M.  Wells 143 

Maternal  Grief William  Wordsworth 24 

Maternity Annie  P.  L.  Fields 122 

Matres  Dolorosse Robert  Bridges 61 

Mother,  A Caroline  E.  S.  Norton 178 

Mother  and  Child.  .  .  .William  Gilmore  Simms.  .  .  121 

Mother  and  Poet Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning    33 

Mother  and  Son Phoebe  Cary 63 

Mother  in  Egypt,  A. .  .  Marjorie  L.  C.  Pickthall  .  .  79 

Mother  o'  Mine Rudyard  Kipling 165 

Mother  to  Son Irene  Rutherford  McLeod .  62 

Mother  Wept Joseph  Skipsey 39 

Motherhood Agnes  Lee 65 

Motherless Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  167 

Mother-Song    (From 

"Prince Lucifer")..  .Alfred  Austin 103 

Mother's  Love Thomas  Burbidge 6 

190 


Index  of  Titles 


Mother's  Picture,  A . . .  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman      4 

Mother's  Return,  The.  Dorothy  Wordsworth 16 

Mother's  Song Unknown 113 

My  Ain  Wife Alexander  Laing 170 

My  Bird Emily  C.  Judson 124 

My  Little  Dear Dollie  Radford 126 

My  Mother Frederic  Hentz  Adams. .  . .   181 

My  Mother Jane  Taylor 133 

My  Mother William  Bell  Scott 160 

My  Mother's  Bible .  .  .  George  Pope  Morris 50 

Nature Henry  W.  Longfellow 155 

"Now  I  Lay  Me  Down 
to  Sleep  " Eugene  Henry  Pullen 174 

Old  Arm  Chair,  The..  .Eliza  Cook 150 

One  Mother Irene  Rutherford  McLeod .     64 

Only  One George  Cooper 176 

Regina  Coeli Coventry  Patmore 83 

Road  to  Slumber-Land, 
The Mary  Dow  Brine 98 

Sad  Mother,  The Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson.  42 

Sea  Slumber-Song Roden  Noel 91 

Sephestia's    Lullaby 

(From  "  Menaphon"  Robert  Greene) 104 

Seven  Times  Four ....  Jean  Ingelow 3 

She  was  a  Phantom  of 

Delight William  Wordsworth 171 

Shepherdess,  The Alice  Meynell 166 

Sleep,  Baby,  Sleep ....  Anonymous 95 

Song  from  "The  Prin- 
cess."   Alfred  Tennyson 18 

Song  of  Twilight,  A. .  .  Unknown 118 

Songs  for  My  Mother.  .Anna  Hempstead  Branch  . .   28 

Swedish  Mother's  Lul- 
laby   Frederika  Bremer 98 

Sweet  and  Low Alfred  Tennyson 92 

Thank.sgiving     after 

Childbirth William  Wurd.sworth 159 

101 


Index  of  Titles 


"That  They  All  May 

Be  One" Roden  Noel 128 

"The  old  face  of  the  mother  of  many  children" 

Walt  Whitman 177 

To  a  Child  Embracing 

His  Mother Thomas  Hood 136 

To  a  Young  Child Ehza  Scudder 158 

To  His  Mother John  Banister  Tabb 166 

To  My  First  Love,  My 

Mother Christina  G.  Rossetti 161 

To  My  Mother Thomas  Moore 145 

To  My  Mother Robert  Haven  SchauflBer. .  180 

Tucking  the  Baby  In..  Curtis  May 119 

Two  Sons Robert  Buchanan 51 

Virgin,  The William  Wordsworth 158 

Visit,  The Rhymes  for  the  Nursery.. .  138 

Widow's  Mite,  The .  . .  Frederick  Locker-Lampson.  7 

Wishing William  Allingham 137 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and 

Nod Eugene  Field 100 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

Adams,  Frederic  Hentz    181 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 95 

Allingham,  William 135,  137 

Anderson,  Alexander 145 

Anonymous 95 

Austin,  Alfred 103 

Bartlett,  M.  C 16 

Bethune,  George 172 

Blake,  William 105,  123 

Branch,  Anna  Hempstead 28 

Bremer,  Frederika 98 

Bridges,  Robert 61 

Brine,  Mary  Dow 98 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 33,  167 

Buchanan,  Robert 61 

Burbidge,  Thomas 5 

Gary,  Phoebe 63 

Gook,  Eliza 150 

Cooper,  George 112,  176 

Gowper,  William 44 

Dobell.  Sidney 40,  62 

Fane,  Julian  Henry 155 

Ferguson,  James 102 

Field,  Anne  P.  L 122 

Field,  Eugene 96,  100,  169 

Garrison,  W^endell  Phillips 101 

Goodchild,  John  Arthur Ill 

Greene,  Robert 104 

Harpur,  Charles 43 

Hinkson,  Katharine  Tynan 42 

103 


Index  of  Authors 


Holland,  Josiah  Gilbert 85.  116 

Hood.  Thomas 136 

Ingelow,  Jean 3 

Johnson,  Robert  Underwood 58 

Judson,  Emily  C 12^! 

Kipling,  Rudyard 165 

Laing,  Alexander 170 

Landor.  Walter  Savage 125 

Lee.  Agnes 65 

Locker-Lampson,  Frederick 7 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth 155 

May.  Curtis 119 

McLeod.  Irene  Rutherford 52,  54 

Meynell,  Alice 166 

Milton,  John 69 

Moody,  William  Vaughn 7 

Moore,  Thomas 145 

Morris,  George  Pope 50 

Noel.  Roden 91,  128 

Norton,  Caroline  E.  S 178 

Palgrave,  Francis  Turner 86 

Patmore,  Coventry 83 

Peabody,  Josephine  Preston 19,  22 

Pickthall,  Marjorie  L.  C 79 

PuUen,  Eugene  Henry 174 

Radford,  Dollie 126 

Rhymes  for  the  Nursery 138 

Rossetti,  Christina  G 161 

Rosslyn.  Francis.  Earl  of 156 

SchauflBer.  Robert  Haven 180 

Scott.  Walter 106 

Scott,  William  Bell 160 

Scudder,  Eliza 158 

Simms,  William  Gilmore 121 

194 


Index  of  Authors 

Skipsey,  Joseph 39 

Southey,  Robert 127 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 4 

Stillman,  Annie  R 175 

("Grace  Raymond") 

Tabb,  John  Banister 84,  165,  166 

Taylor,  Jane 133.  142.  147.  149 

Taylor,  Jane  and  Ann 141 

Tennyson,  Alfred 18,  92 

Turner,  Charles  Tennyson 157 

Unknown 82,  87,  113,  115.  118 

Watts,  Isaac 92 

Wells,  Anna  M 143 

Whitman,  Walt 177 

Wordsworth,  Dorothy 16.  97 

Wordsworth,  W^Uliam 24.  158.  159.  171 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 

alniiHiBo 


JUL  26  IQ44 


1951 J 
M^^     1951/ 


]VIAY1 


JAN  2  6  195i 

---  1  8198^ 


IIAY2  7^§§§ 


CD 


/ 


'■^ARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  419  077 


:_R 


